Of Onions & Icebergs
by MissiAmphetamine
Summary: Draco Malfoy has decided he wants out of the war after four long years, and when a possible opportunity arises, he seizes it. Which is how he ends up on the run with Hermione Granger - and the horcrux she swallowed - as hostages. For her part, Hermione can't seem to figure him out. Is Malfoy an onion, or an iceberg? Either way, he's definitely a kidnapping prat.
1. The Ice Creaks

**Disclaimer:**The 'verse and the characters are JK Rowling's – all hail the supreme overlord! I'm just gleefully playing in her sandbox, and own nothing except for my original plot concepts/characters, so please don't sue me; you'll get no joy from it anyway :D

**Author's Note: **A plot bunny came and hopped into my head the other day, and started bouncing around and wouldn't leave. The only way to placate it, was to start luring it out into the open, with the carrots of 'look, I'm writing you, I'm writing you!' This story will be updated slower than _The Just World Fallacy_, most likely, being a side project, but hopefully updates will still be nice and regular. I'm a little nervous – and excited – about writing a new Dramione, and I hope you'll enjoy it, lovely readers :)

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_**1. The Ice Creaks, or, Unearthing the Onion**_

"Kill him." The high, cold voice was perfectly calm and pleasant; utterly undisturbed by the prospect of murder. Being mad and evil tended to make one rather blasé about murder, Draco imagined. He gulped and met his mother's frightened blue eyes with his own panicked grey gaze, knowing full well who the Dark Lord was talking about. Draco Malfoy was not ready to die. He held his breath as his father spoke in carefully sycophantic tones. "My Lord… You know I serve you faithfully in all things, but –"

"But _what?_" Voldemort probed with a cruel amusement, and Draco shuddered at the tone, his ear still pressed to the wall, as was his mother's. They were both utterly silent; even their breathing was shallow and muffled as they listened to Lord Voldemort and Draco's father discuss the 20-year-old's fate. Or rather, listened to Lucius grovel and beg in a way that disgusted Draco, even as he acknowledged the need for it. The Malfoys' family pride was long gone; they had been reduced to nothing more than boot-licking servants, and it grated on Draco's nerves terribly, as he knew it did his father's; his mother was a little more circumspect about the whole situation.

"He is my _son_, my Lord. He is my only heir, and he has been a loyal servant to you, always – regardless of his success or failure, he has always been devoted to you absolutely, I know this. I beg of you, my Lord, please, give my son another chance." There was a tremble to Lucius' voice, and Narcissa was dead white, all the blood drained from her face at she pressed her ear against the garish paisley wallpaper. To question the Dark Lord, to ask such a favour of him; well, it was a fine way to get oneself skinned at the dinner table and fed to that damned snake, as Draco had seen happen more than a handful of times over the past three long years. At first such occurrences had shaken him to his very bones with sick terror; by now he merely bemoaned the way it ruined his appetite for dinner.

There was no point in being self-righteously horrified – showing that kind of emotion would just get him killed or tortured, and even with the skills of Occlumency that Snape had tried to teach Draco, just thinking about how repulsed he was, could be dangerous. His Occlumency skills were not perfect, unlike the Hogwarts Headmaster's, whom Draco suspected was hiding more from Voldemort than the Dark Lord realised. Voldemort's sharp rebuke dragged Draco's attention back to the moment, to the voices in the library next door, and his mother's hand squeezing his so tightly she was grinding the bones in his fingers together.

"Do you _question_ me, and my decisions, Lucius? Do you refuse to do as I request of you?" Affront in the Dark Lord's voice; disbelief and the faintest hint of sadism.

"_Please_, my Lord, I am your humble servant, but I beg of you, do not make me kill my son. Please, give him one last chance!"

Draco didn't hear the Dark Lord's answer to that; the sound of Aunt Bella's shrill, mad voice drifted faintly down the corridor at that moment and Draco's mother was instantly tugging at his sleeve, pulling him away. "Draco, darling. Quickly. We cannot let the Dark Lord know we were listening."

Draco let his mother pull him away, feeling numbed and leaden – infuriatingly helpless. He was filled with the dread of the inevitable; the suffering certain to be visited on him, one way or the other. His father was going to get himself tortured or killed for pressing Voldemort and questioning his decisions like this, and Draco would likely end up dead anyway, just by another's hands. He was trapped in an untenable position and there was absolutely nothing he could do, unless by some miracle Voldemort decided to give Draco another chance – which would only buy him some more time, not solve the problem.

Because the problem was not that Draco kept failing, the problem was that he _wanted_ to keep failing. So many times he had been sent out to perform tasks for the Dark Lord, and anything involving torture or lesser deeds, he had managed to carry out, but every mission he was given that involved murder…Draco had failed to complete. He just couldn't bring himself to commit that one last act of evil. It was a weakness that his father berated him over, and his mother praised him for, both of them dreadfully afraid for him. Sometimes his father or Snape were able to complete the tasks set to Draco that involved murder, placating the Dark Lord enough to leave Draco alive, but it left Draco feeling even more useless. Making his father and godfather do his dirty work for him, hiding behind what protection they could give him; he disgusted himself.

And the Dark Lord had very quickly become aware of the fact that Draco was being sheltered by his father and Snape, and took great pleasure in toying with Draco – setting him missions to torture, maim, or kill whole families, or people he once knew at Hogwarts. Draco hated Voldemort for setting him the tasks, hated himself for being unable to complete the worst of them, hated his father and Snape for prolonging Draco's miserable life, and most of all, hated the people he was ordered to kill or hurt, precisely because he couldn't do it. Draco spent a lot of time mired in hate, now he thought about it. Hating was easy, and satisfying, and it fuelled the anger that kept him going one awful day after another – it let him cast the _Cruciatus _on innocent people through channelling that anger and hate. It kept him alive; not that it was much of a life. But now it looked like the Dark Lord had tired of keeping Draco around as a toy, and was tossing him in the rubbish at last. _Fuck_.

Four years spent doing whatever had to be done to keep himself alive, save murder, four years spent in fear and anger and self-loathing, and now it was over, and done. And if Draco's father didn't shut the hell up, he'd get himself bloody well murdered too, and then where would his mother be? Alone in the world, and his mum didn't deserve that. She shouldn't lose both her husband and her son, leaving her with just that estranged sister who'd married a Muggleborn, and the dangerously psychotic Bella, who at this moment was calling out his mother's name shrilly. It wailed along the corridor and into the morning room as his mother opened the door, and Draco gritted his teeth. Merlin, he wanted to kill that bitch so badly.

"Cissa! There you are. I was looking _everywhere_ for you," Aunt Bella crooned as Draco and his mother slipped out of the morning room and into the corridor. Draco's mother gave her dishevelled, dark-haired sister a tight smile, smoothing her pale hands over her equally pale hair, all done up on her head neatly. "Bella, sister-dear. How may I help you?"

"I don't like my room," Bella said petulantly, like a child, tipping her nose up into the air and glaring down it at her sister. "I want it to be closer to the Dark Lord's quarters."

"I don't see what –" Narcissa began to placate her sister, as Draco stood quietly just behind her to her right, staring at the floor and picturing all the different ways in which he could kill his dear Aunt Bellatrix. He thought that if he could murder anyone, it would be that bitch.

"_Your_ room is closer. I want _your_ room," Bella demanded, still sounding like a toddler on the verge of tantrum, and Draco's mother rubbed at her temples with thin fingers, and then sighed with defeat. "Very well then, Bella. Come with me, and we'll get the house elves to swap our belongings around."

"Mother?" Draco arched an eyebrow, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but not sure what to do now, either. He had no idea if he was safe for now, or if Voldemort had already ordered his death. Or his father's death, for that matter. He wondered how his mother had stayed so strong with the constant threat of having her son or husband ripped away from her hanging over her head, day and night for the past 1,460 days, give or take a handful. It was a wonder her platinum hair hadn't gone genuine stark white from the strain of it all.

"Go to your room, Draco, dear," his mother ordered stiffly and brusquely, sounding as though he were a child and not a fucking full-grown man of twenty, but it gave him a reason to get the hell out of Bellatrix's presence at least. She always eyed Draco like he was a piece of meat; tasty and edible, and he didn't like the way she smiled at him, her tongue flickering over her lips. It was a feral, anticipatory sort of expression. Draco always made sure to call her _Aunt_ very pointedly, because he thought perhaps she needed the reminder. Her expression, when her eyes fell on him, was never very familial.

"Yes, mother. _Aunt_ Bella." He acknowledged the witch reluctantly and coldly, with a bow of his head, and then turned and hurried down the corridor toward his room, his fists clenched at his sides and his mind racing. So, Voldemort wanted Draco killed. It was hardly a surprise, but there wasn't much Draco could do about it either, if Voldemort had made up his mind. Maybe he and his parents could defect? Swap sides? His lip curled. Not likely. Not only was he not so far gone that he wasn't about to join the side that embraced mudbloods, but he doubted he and his parents would be welcomed with open arms. It would likely be the Kissfor his father and a good decade or two in Azkaban for Draco, and if his mother was lucky, she might get to live out her days as a free pauper. No, defection wasn't an option for the Malfoy family.

Which left Draco just hoping that his father had managed to convince Voldemort to give Draco one last chance. He hurried along the lushly carpeted corridors of his childhood home, fists balled up at his sides and head bowed, shoulders hunched. For Salazar's sake, all he had to do was end the lives of a few worthless blood traitors, mudbloods or muggles – why did he find that so Merlin-damned difficult? It wasn't like he had any affection for them, any sympathy, so why couldn't he just _kill them?_ He slammed his door in a fury, and sank onto his bed, bowing his head and running his hands through his hair. He was weak. Fucking _weak_, just like Voldemort said. And that weakness was going to get Draco killed. And he knew his parents wouldn't let that happen without trying to save Draco, so they'd get themselves killed too, and it would all be Draco's fault.

He stood and stared at himself in the mirror. For all that he was built like a man now, and had the stubble and hard lines of a man, the grey eyes that stared back at him in the mirror were those of a frightened boy. A cowardly, pathetic loser, who was going to get his family killed, and have his own miserable life ended. All because he couldn't commit a simple fucking murder, on people he cared nothing for, who meant _nothing _to him. Who, in some cases he hated, for what they represented – his torment, in being forced to torture and maim them, in being ordered to kill them and failing. He frowned at himself in the mirror. It had been four years of nothing but torture and death, but rather than becoming inured to it, it still sickened him. He still struggled to torture someone and felt racked with guilt for days – weeks even – afterwards, and he still couldn't just sharply, quickly, end someone's life, even when, in all honesty, it would be a mercy to do it. Draco turned away from the mirror with a parting sneer of disgust for himself.

He didn't have the bollocks to be a proper Death Eater; he'd done too many good things – the polyjuice incident sprang to mind, and he immediately thrust it from his thoughts – to be a proper bloody Death Eater. But he was too much of a cowardly, spineless, amoral fuck to be on the side of the light. Either way, Draco was screwed. He'd almost be thankful to go and live out his life with Muggles, if it meant he could get out of this fucking war and the trap he was stuck in. Merlin, he was so fucking pathetic.

But he didn't want to die.

**# # # # # #**

"I'm sorry! I'm really, really sorry!" Harry was half-laughing, backing away from Hermione with his hands held up in surrender, his footing unsteady on the forest floor. He was obviously trying to stifle his laughter, but it kept snorting out of him, and _was not_ improving Hermione's mood, which currently hovered somewhere between 'furious' and 'horrified'. Ron was currently coughing up slugs somewhere behind her, still laughing even through his choking and his attempts to apologise, the bastard. Hermione strode towards Harry with her lips pressed hard together, brows drawn down with anger, and wand pointed dangerously at her bespectacled friend.

Harry had been giving Hermione a haircut, as per usual – every six months or so, she let one of the boys give her horrible, bushy hair a trim for her. Harry had just been stupidly teasing her about just lopping it all off, hovering the scissors about two inches from her scalp around a large hank of hair, Hermione telling him irritably to 'stop it, before you really do cut it off you _git!_' And then Ron had apparated back from doing the grocery shopping, and the crack had startled Harry into snicking the scissors shut.

For a moment Harry and Hermione had both been frozen by a mutual horror, and then he'd squeaked, "Oh Christ, Hermione, I'm sorry! My hand slipped! Ron – it was Ron's fault! I didn't mean to!"

And Hermione had, predictably, exploded. She'd leaped up and spun around, and seen the drift of hair lying across the dead pine needles on the forest floor, grabbed at her head and felt a large empty, shorn short patch, and _shrieked_. In her defence, she had her period and the cramps were horrible, and she'd had to ask Ron to get the tampons which was always embarrassing because he made such a fuss about it, and they'd spent the last of their gainfully gotten money on the groceries today and would have to resort to stealing to get any more, which Hermione _hated_ having to do, and they still had no idea how to destroy the horcrux locket that they had just found, and she was the one wearing it right now. So…she was a little on edge, to put it lightly.

"My _hair!_ Harry, how _could_ you, you _idiot_, I told you to stop being silly and now _look what you've done!_" she had yelped, tears springing to her eyes, making her feel stupid and emotional and out of control, which she hated. And then Ron had seen the big short patch at the back of her head, and started laughing, and that had been the last straw. Hermione had spun around and hissed "_Slugulus eructo!_" and hexed Ron. It had been rather satisfying, actually, but it hadn't fixed her hair. So she'd whirled on Harry, and now here she was, stalking him across the forest floor, boiling over with a seething rage, and racking her brain to think of what curse would be appropriate.

"I'm sorry, Hermione! Honestly! It was an accident! Please!" But he was laughing even as he pleaded with her, and Hermione lost her patience, and just snarled at him and cast _petrificus totalus_ and stalked away before she gave in to the growing urge to cast something worse – wearing the locket was a dangerous business, especially when one was angry, and not in proper control of oneself. Hermione knew enough to go and shut herself away until she calmed down, not wanting to do anything stupid, but she was fuming so violently that she half-expected to catch on fire from the force of her rage as she stalked to the tent. She had enough presence of mind at least to rip off the locket and fling it at Ron's head.

And then, locket off, she burst into violent tears and ran into the tent, sobbing.

It wasn't funny, Hermione thought a while later, sequestered in the privacy of her little bedroom in the tent, feeling mortified by her behaviour. Her anger had melted away to a miserable sort of dejection with the removal of the locket, and she'd cried until her eyes were red and her nose all snotted up and blocked, telling the boys to go away in no uncertain terms when they'd tentatively tried to gain access to her room. She knew it was a dreadfully silly thing to be upset about, considering pretty much everything else in their lives was more important than her vanity, but it was the last straw, in a way. If she was going to be stuck hunting horcruxes – and ways to destroy them – cut off from the rest of the wizarding world for god knew how many more years, the least she could do was not look like a maniac had taken to her hair with scissors.

She enlarged her little pocket mirror and set it on her dresser, and stared at herself despondently, planning to transfigure another mirror so she could assess the damage at the back of her head. If only she knew some glamour charms she could hide the accident; but unfortunately Hermione had always prided herself on not indulging in the frivolous, except on very special occasions. Her hair looked much the same from the front though, at least, and all of a sudden, Hermione _hated_ it, and everything else about how she looked. She stared at ordinary brown eyes that were bloodshot and red-rimmed, blotchy cheeks, a horribly reddened, snotty nose, and worst of all, bushy, _awful_ brown hair that without access to Sleekeazy's Hair Potion was absolutely uncontrollable and looked like a wild animal had set up residence on her head. And she hadn't had any Sleekeazy's in years – not since she'd used up the last of it not long after her, Harry, and Ron had gone on the hunt for horcruxes four years ago. Since then, they'd not been able to have anything to do with the wizarding world – it was too dangerous. For them, and for the people they met with. Oh, they'd had the occasional brief meeting with people in the Order over the years, but the War raged fiercely, so those meetings were few and far between, and Hermione would have felt petty asking for Sleekeazy's – if indeed the company was even still running, which Hermione rather doubted.

Hermione glared at herself, disdainful of her vanity, when Diagon Alley was apparently mostly boarded up, people were dying horribly every week, Hogwarts was really no more than a prison for the students, all her friends and family who were still alive were scattered to the winds, and they were no closer to killing Voldemort. The Order knew of their mission searching for the horcruxes, but Harry was the only one who could sense them, so there was no point in anyone searching but him. So the Order of the Phoenix was fighting the War, while she, Harry, and Ron went gallivanting about the countryside – the _world_, in fact – hunting horcruxes, stealing from Muggles, and generally failing to achieve anything. They'd found the locket a year ago, but then Voldemort had managed to put a trace on Ron, and they'd been running madly – without even a chance to try to figure out how to destroy the locket – until last month, when they'd finally discovered and removed the trace. Eleven months on the run, on top of three previous years of fruitless searching…well, it would leave anyone discouraged, Hermione thought.

The first year they'd wasted mostly just trying to figure out what to do – investigating the things Dumbledore had left them, and coming up with nothing but a hint about the Deathly Hallows that Ron – of all people! – had recognised in Hermione's Beedle the Bard book. So they'd kept searching for horcruxes, and not found anything but near-death experiences, a failed trip to Godric's Hollow where Nagini tried to kill them, and stories about Dumbledore killing his sister, and about the elder wand, and about…well, nothing very useful. Just over a year after Bill and Fleur's wedding – having only been in contact with their friends and family in the wizarding world via the occasional patronus message, much to Ron and Harry's frustration – in desperation to achieve _something_, Harry had decided Luna's father might be able to give them some information on the Hallows. Hermione had thought it was a wild goose chase. Hallows were _not _horcruxes.

And it _had_ been a wild goose chase, in a way, because when they had gone to see Xenophilius Lovegood, they'd found his rotting corpse displayed on the roof of his odd house. It had become clear, then, that The Quibbler – suddenly and suspiciously pro-Voldemort and anti-Harry – was being run by someone polyjuiced to _look_ like Luna's father, because Xenophilius Lovegood himself had been at least a week dead, if not longer. Everything had only gotten worse for the trio – and the wizarding world as a whole – since then. They'd had word that the war was stepping up in viciousness, but they were told not to return – that whatever task Dumbledore had set them, it was more important. And then they heard a week later, that Charlie Weasley had been killed. They hadn't been able to attend the funeral.

In their second year hunting for horcruxes, they'd been captured by Snatchers, and tortured by that evil _bitch_ Bellatrix Lestrange, with the whole Malfoy family looking on like pale, frightened mice. They had found Luna down in the Malfoy family dungeons. She had been dead at least a month; the only way they had known it was her body was because of the broken Spectrespecs she'd been clutching in her hand. They'd spent three days cramped in a cell with her decomposing body before Dobby – wonderful, dear Dobby, might his faithful little soul rest in peace, Hermione thought automatically – had rescued them. In the meantime however, they'd been tortured mercilessly, the only thing that had saved them from immediate execution the fact that Voldemort was away in Europe and that Hermione had cast a disfigurement hex on Harry. And Draco Malfoy hadn't identified him, even though it was still vaguely apparent who Harry was. In fact, that first night, Draco Malfoy had appeared outside the bars of their cell, and muttered sullenly, "Here, polyjuice for Potter," as he'd shoved a bottle at them, and then disappeared before Hermione and the others could thank him.

Hermione still had no idea why Malfoy had done it, and it irritated her, when she thought of it. She liked being able to put people into neat slots, and label them, and that one event – with no rhyme or reason behind it, so out of character for Malfoy – had made it impossible for Hermione to lay judgement on him. Of course, the next day, Malfoy had played his part in torturing the three of them, when he'd been ordered to, but again, he hadn't seemed to take any pleasure in it, and his _crucios_ had lacked power compared to Bellatrix's, his wand hand had been trembling and his face disgusted. It had confused Hermione. Was Malfoy an actively evil arsehole, or just a coward? Ron said that Malfoy was an evil git one way or the other, because he'd still been an utter prat at school, and he'd still tortured them, and at the end of the day, Hermione knew Ron was right. After all, Malfoy had chosen his side and whether he regretted that choice or not, he hadn't changed his choice, or his behaviour. Even now, Hermione would occasionally hear snatches of news of Malfoy's antics, torturing or maiming Muggles, Muggleborns, and blood traitors.

Hermione had horrible nightmares of the three days they'd spent captured at the Malfoy Manor, now and then – like they all did – and she always ended up with Malfoy lingering in the corners of her mind for days afterwards. Like an irritating, horrid ghost that wouldn't go away, or a song stuck in her head, looping over and over. She puzzled over him unwillingly, because that polyjuice incident had been a puzzle, and Hermione couldn't help but be intrigued by puzzles. She would spend several days after a nightmare wondering why on earth Malfoy had done it; why he'd saved their lives, only to torture them anyway. She'd confided to Harry –not Ron – about her strange fixation, and he'd offered that maybe it was a kind of coping reflex, to focus on Malfoy instead of the torture and horrors they'd endured in those three days.

Sometimes, Harry made a lot of sense.

Hermione sighed and fished a pair of scissors out of her handy beaded bag, and a pair of nail clippers that she transfigured into a mirror which she set on the bed behind her, giving her a near total view of her head. She stared at her hair assessingly, casting her other thoughts aside. Harry certainly had taken out a fair chunk, she thought with a grimace, trying to be dispassionate about it. Hermione sighed again, frowned, picked up a lock of hair at the front, and feeling rather daring, decisively hacked it off. Half an hour later, she was staring at herself in the mirror in mingled horror and awe. Well, she certainly wouldn't have to worry about her hair being bushy – she hardly had any. And she wasn't at all certain if she liked it; she was hardly a salon-quality hairdresser, and even if she had been, the length was just so strange she imagined it would take quite some time to get used to.

Well, it was done now, wasn't it, she thought, not allowing herself to regret it, whisking away her cut hair and vanishing it, and then _scourgifying_ away the little cut hairs that itched at her neck. Her head felt several pounds lighter, and extremely strange – it _felt_ even stranger than it looked, and she ran a hand over her newly-shorn head, marvelling at the difference. Her whole head felt light, and brilliant, and she grinned at herself, suddenly ecstatic with Harry and Ron for being the catalysts for this. She loved it. No more bothering with trying to tame her hopeless bush of hair, no more swearing at it, and trying to drag it back into a neat bun only to have it frizz out horribly. No more hour-long struggles to yank a brush through it, or failed attempts at smoothing it with Muggle products that they could ill-afford. Hermione now had terrifyingly-unfamiliar-but-rather-marvellous short-cropped locks, which she would barely even need to _brush_, let alone spend ages wrestling with.

She bounced out into the living area of the tent and beamed at the rather cowed Harry and Ron, waiting for their gasps of shock. Instead Ron looked up from his mug of hot cocoa, looking miserable and apologetic, and faintly green and nauseous still, and simply said, "We're really sorry, 'Mione. We've learnt our lesson, promise. Just don't make me vomit slugs anymore, _please_, you know I hate that."

She blinked at him, having expected a hue and cry over her drastic haircut, but just smiled brightly at him. "It's fine, Ron. I'm just sorry that I may have, well, overreacted just a little bit. And it's worked out well in the end, so…no more slugs. I promise. I think that was probably the horcrux, more than anything. Horrid thing."

"I'm sorry, too, Hermione. I shouldn't have been mucking around like that. I wasn't –" Harry broke off and squinted at her, tilting his head to one side and frowning, scratching his head. "Did you do something with your hair?"

"Oh. My. God," Hermione exclaimed, huffing at the pair of them and shoving her hands on her hips. "I cut it all off, _thanks to you_." She had to remind herself that she was actually _happy_ about that, after the indignity of them not even noticing. Typical boys. "And actually, I rather like it. So _thank you_, for being a pair of _bloody _idiots." And then she stalked over to the stove to make herself a cup of cocoa, feeling the boys' nervous stares on her backs. If she heard so much as a _whisper_ about 'girls being irrational on their periods' or it being 'that time of the month' she would hex them both into next week, she swore to Merlin. But instead, Ron cleared his throat meekly, and Hermione glanced at him over his shoulder.

"It looks really nice, 'Mione," he said timidly. "Really pretty. Kind of, um…"

"Modern," Harry offered, with a hopeful smile. "Very, er, fashionable."

Hermione melted a little. As annoying as the two of them could be, and as stressed as they all got at times, especially with the damned horcrux buzzing like an angry hornet in the background al the time, she loved her two boys. You _had_ to love each other, to spend four years crammed in a tent with no one but each other and random Muggles to associate with, or you'd go mad and commit a murder-suicide. Or she would, at least.

"Thank you," she said magnanimously, "And I _am_ sorry I hexed you both."

"S'all right, Hermione. We've all hexed each other at some point. I think it was coming up on your turn to spit the dummy anyway," Ron grinned.

"Yeah, last one was me, when I tied your shoelaces together with that knotting jinx," Harry said to Hermione, smirking a little. She frowned – it had only been a week ago, and it had _not _been funny to have been storming away from Harry, huffily cutting short an argument she'd been losing, only to trip over her own feet and go face first on the ground.

"And then me before that, when I set Harry's eyebrows on fire," Ron remembered, which made Hermione smile, and Harry frown and instinctively touch his eyebrows, still growing in a bit.

"Well then, I suppose it was my turn," Hermione said, nodding her newly shorn head and feeling nicely justified in her explosion, bringing her cocoa over to the low wood table and sitting on the bench beside Harry with a sigh. "You really think it looks nice?"

"Mmm, course it does. Now, I hate to bring it up when we're all a happy family again, but…" Harry started, and Hermione sighed and Ron groaned and dropped his head against the table with a thunk. "…We need to figure out a way to destroy this horcrux," Harry finished apologetically. "We don't have any of the things that could destroy it – not that we know _all_ of the things that could destroy it, most likely – and now that we've gotten rid of the trace on Ron, we should be focusing on _getting_ one of the things that can."

"Fuck. Back to the bloody grind," Ron swore, forehead still resting on the table and voice muffled, and Hermione felt the heavy weight that had lifted off her for one blessed moment descend again. "I'm afraid Harry's right, Ron. We have to make a move while we can. We can't keep carrying the horcrux around forever; it's not good for us."

"Well, I've no bloody idea how to get our hands on something that'll destroy the bloody thing," Ron admitted from his faceplant on the table, and Hermione smiled faintly at him.

"Neither do I," Harry chimed in, and then both boys looked hopefully at Hermione, her cup of cocoa poised at her lips. She sighed and lowered it to the table; took a moment to count to ten, because she was _sick_ of being the one in charge of most practical matters, the one both the boys turned to when they were stumped. The bloody _mother_ of the group. For four fucking years. She didn't say any of that, though, just thought it, with a great deal of repressed resentment, as she counted to ten, and then carried on to twenty.

"Fine," she said at last, a little snippily. "I'll do some research, then. When I'm finished my cocoa." And then she picked up her drink and sipped at it slowly, deliberately tuning out the boys – still marvelling over the delicious, light feeling of her cropped hair, and smiling faintly to herself.

**# # # # # #**

"He didn't kill you," Draco said dully, as the door shut behind his father, and his mother quickly put up privacy charms and wards with delicate swoops and flicks of her wand. Draco had been sitting on his bed for the past several hours, staring at the door and waiting to be taken away to be tortured and killed, or hear that such a fate had already befallen his father, or, Merlin forbid, his mother. Instead his parents were both in his room, drawn and frightened but obviously alive and unharmed, a secretive air hanging about them. Draco felt hope start to thread through him as his mother flashed him a small, pale smile, and his father began to pace up and down in front of the door, his hands behind his back and his brows drawn down, deep in thought. They both ignored his redundant observation, and Draco waited in silence for them to speak.

"I have managed to convince the Dark Lord to give you one last chance," Draco's father said abruptly, halting his pacing and staring at Draco sharply, his once immaculately groomed hair hanging lank and uncared for about his thin, stubbled face. Draco remembered a time when his father had looked far younger than his years and positively stylish, but now he just looked ancient and haggard, his pale eyes half-crazed. Only Draco's mother could bring a bit of serenity back into those grey eyes, or make a smile cross his face. Draco knew his father loved him – he wouldn't risk his life to save Draco's if that weren't the case – but he hadn't shown Draco any affection in years, which was why Draco wasn't hurt by the bleak coldness in his father's face as he looked at him now.

Draco swallowed past the lump in his throat and sank his head, his brief hope turning sour in his mouth, turning leaden in his chest. "What good is that? You know – you know I can't…" He was a failure. A disappointment to his father – the Mark on his arm was nothing but a charade, because Draco could never be a true Death Eater; he didn't even _want_ to be. The whole thing sickened him. His mother sat down beside him on the bed, soft and warm and smelling of violets and roses, her hand folding over her son's, and Draco stared at it blankly.

"I can't complete the sort of task the Dark Lord is likely to have set for me, and I don't imagine he'll be placated by you or Severus completing it in my stead, yet again." Draco met his father's cold, pale eyes, and couldn't think of anything to say but the truth. "I'm a fucking failure."

"Draco – language!" his mother chided, absurdly, and then, "You're not a failure. I will always be proud of you, my son. Always. No matter what. And I…love you very much."

Draco's eyes widened. This was a…goodbye. He knew it. He'd heard enough of them over the years, between Muggles and others that he'd had to torture, that he'd watched be killed. "What's going on?" he demanded, casting off his mother's hand and shoving himself to his feet, staring down at her and then across at his father, waiting for some answers. Neither of them responded, a silent communication seeming to pass between them. "What's going on?" Draco demanded again, tone going shrill with fear, and his father sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, licked his lips and began.

"The Dark Lord has had word that Potter is back in Britain, in the north. He and his two companions, Weasley and Granger, have been spotted in Muggle villages by _imperioed _squibs. They've been seen in Dornoch, Golspie, and then Brora, in the Highlands, and from the pattern of their movement it's safe to assume they'll most likely continue up the coast to Helmsdale. The Dark Lord wishes you to go, _alone_, and capture them."

Draco stared at his father in disbelief, sinking back to the bed. This was ridiculous. He and he alone, against the three of them? Draco might be good at duelling, but he wasn't _that_ bloody good.

"If you bring back Potter, or all three of them, all will be forgiven. If you bring back Granger and Weasley, the three of us shall be tortured, but allowed to live – for a time, at least. If you bring back Granger only, then the Dark Lord will kill me," his father continued calmly, and Draco's jaw clenched tight and his heart stopped. _No._ He knew what was coming next. It was typical of Voldemort's twisted humour.

"…if you only manage to capture Weasley, your mother will be killed."

_No._

_No-no-no-no-no._

"And if you manage to capture none of them, both your mother and I shall be killed, and you will have your wand taken from you, be blinded, and then released in a Muggle town, and left to their mercies." His father's voice was strangled, despite his attempt at dispassion, and Draco heard his mother let out a soft sort of sobbing sound.

_No. Oh fucking Merlin, __**no.**_

Draco felt sick. He felt sick and cold, and he was suddenly shivering all over, because there was no way that he could bring back the three of them, and Weasley and Granger would die for Potter before they allowed the bloody Boy-Who-Lived to be captured. Either his mother or his father were going to die, or both of them and Draco would get to _wish_ he was dead, crippled and trapped without use of his magic amongst Muggles. Wonderful. He may as well kill his parents and then off himself now – and if he wasn't such a _fucking_ spineless coward, he really thought he might.

"So we're fucked, is that what you're trying to tell me?"

His father actually smiled at that, a dry, papery expression without any humour. "Not quite."

Draco gulped. "Do you think – do you think the Dark Lord would agree to take _my_ life in penance, if I fail in bringing back Potter?"

His father's humourless smile grew, and he shook his head slightly. "No."

"Of course not, that would be too fair," Draco choked out, not sure if he would have had the guts to ask it of Voldemort anyway, and feeling horribly ashamed about that fact. He buried his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Fuck."

A hand rested on his shoulder, and he knew it was his mother's – his father never touched him. "We want you to defect," she said quietly, and Draco's head jerked up, his eyes gluing to his mother's face. "_What?_ But then…you won't even have a chance…" He might not be able to take down the Trio fairly, but there could be _some_ way to get his hands on all three of them. He had to _try_.

"You haven't killed anyone, Draco," his mother said, her periwinkle blue eyes soft on his face. "You have hurt people, but you have never killed anyone. If you turn yourself in, and cooperate with the Order, then you will live. You will probably get some years in Azkaban, but with the Dementors no longer there, it's not…" Her voice shook and failed at that, and Draco's father took over, his voice clear and cold now. "Without the Dementors, it's only a cell. No worse than life here, really. And they won't give you life, not even close. If you act the role of the reluctant, terrified boy forced into the role of Death Eater, you may get off easily." His father's face darkened with the faintest contempt. "And really, you won't even have to _act_ that, will you?"

"A fact for which I am very proud of him, Lucius, and so should you be," his mother said firmly, eyes snapping at his father, who immediately softened his gaze as he met his wife's. Draco just stared at them both, bewildered, hollow grey eyes darting between their pale, grim figures.

"You can't be serious. You want me to turn traitor and be the cause of your deaths? _Purposely?_ That's – that's fucking _insane_. You can't ask me to do that." Draco stared at his parents pleadingly. Surely that couldn't be their only option. Surely there were other possibilities, other ways out of this mess. He couldn't sentence his parents to death, to save his own pathetic life. That was too much, too awful. "_Please._"

"Voldemort has given you a month in which to retrieve Potter, or the other two," his father said flatly. "If you can come up with a better plan within that timeframe, then by all means try it, Draco. But if you have no other options to attempt, and cannot bring Potter or all three of them back, then defect. Save yourself, even if you think you can capture Granger or Weasley. Your mother and I have talked about it, and we do not wish to live without the other, so there will be nothing here for you to come back to, should you fail so completely." His father bestowed an astonishingly tender look upon his mother and walked to her, took her hand and drew her to her feet, and for a moment Draco felt like he was intruding, as Lucius laid a gentle kiss on Narcissa's forehead. And then the pale woman turned to look at her son.

"Save yourself, Draco. Please. I want you to."

He nodded, not trusting his voice to speak, rage and tears seething up in him sickly. It took him a moment to regain control of himself, blinking hard against stinging hot tears. "When do I leave?" he asked shortly.

"As soon as you've packed," his father said crisply. "But we have to leave you now – we've already stayed too long. The Dark Lord will be suspecting us of trying to work out a way to aid you."

Draco sneered bitterly. "Yes, and we mustn't have that, must we? Wouldn't want me to _actually _succeed. It wouldn't be _half _as fun."

"Be safe, please," his mother said, cutting him off, reaching up and taking Draco's head in her hands, and he bent obediently to let her place a kiss on his cheek. "Be safe, and careful, and for Merlin's sake, if you think you can't succeed, then defect. Don't risk your life. Not for me. Please."

"Yes, mum," he said dutifully in a low, choked voice.

"I love you, Draco."

"Love you too, mum," he mumbled too quietly for even his father to hear. And then, shockingly, his father embraced him, awkwardly and brusquely but tightly, his hand clapping against Draco's back.

"Do what you have to do, son," his father said, rather unhelpfully, Draco thought dazedly, because did his father mean defect, or be willing to kill, finally? It was impossible to know, and Draco had no fucking idea. But there was no time to ask, because his father patted Draco's cheek roughly, another gesture of uncharacteristic affection, and then his parents silently slipped from the room, shutting the door behind them with a quiet click. Draco stared at the door with wounded eyes for a moment, and then he gritted his teeth and _accioed_ a small rucksack with an undetectable extension charm on it, turning to his drawers and beginning to pack, quickly. Draco didn't know what the fuck he was going to do, but he only had a month to do it in, so he'd best not waste any bloody time. He'd need all the time he had available to come up with some sort of plan that even had a _chance_ of working.

Draco did decide one thing – rather cold-bloodedly – as he shoved his socks into his rucksack; that if he got the chance to grab Granger, he would. His parents' determination to live or die together could go get fucked, and their plan for him to defect could take a long walk off a short fucking plank – there was no way he was voluntarily locking himself up in Azkaban if he could avoid it. No, Draco would aim to at least get Granger, if he couldn't come up with a better plan. And he really hoped he would come up with one. Not just for his father's sake, but because he really didn't want Voldemort to get his hands on Granger. She might be a know-it-all mudblood bitch, but Draco had tortured her and seen her tortured by others enough to last him a bloody lifetime, and he really didn't want to have to participate in hurting her anymore, or even bear witness to it.

Draco shoved the extra wand that Ollivander had made for him – not long before he'd died of malnutrition nearly a year ago – in the holster strapped to his calf, and hefted his rucksack to his back. He needed to head to a Muggle library and seek out maps and pictures of Brora, to give him something to focus on, for the apparition. His lip curled at the thought of all the Muggles, pressing in around Draco, while the Dark Mark burnt hidden on his arm. It was a horrible feeling, being in a crowd of those ignorant people all milling about like cattle, completely unaware that a marked predator walked in their midst. A monster, that was him, even if he was a poor, pale fraud of a monster; he was still one of the wolves, and not the sheep. Good, Draco told himself defiantly. _Good_. That was how it should be.

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**Author's Notes: **So, what do you think? ::nervous face::

Compared to _The Risk-Reward _Ratio and _The Just World Fallacy_ , this has a much nicer Lucius, a positively lovely Narcissa, a rather less conflicted and certainly more cowardly and amoral Draco, a feisty, determined and slightly explosive Hermione who's been sustaining Harry and Ron for the past four years on their hunt, and a plot designed to bring her and Draco together ::evil grin::

I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! Please leave me a review and tell me what you thought, and I will worship you forever – because you know how much I love reviews :)

You can get status updates for this (and _The Just World Fallacy_), and read a short excerpt from the story (the plot bunny scene that popped into my head the other day, that's set around mid-story, I think) on Facebook, at /theriskrewardratio


	2. Splinters & Thunder

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited this story so far – I appreciate it immensely! Thank you! Xx It's late, my proof-reading probably sucked, I apologise in advance for any and all typos and missing words – I hope there are few. Now on with the chapter!

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_**2. Splinters & Thunder, or, Uprooted**_

Brora was a tiny village by Muggle standards, Draco knew, but to someone who spent most of his time in the wizarding world it was good-sized – a bleak reminder of just how terribly Muggles outnumbered magical folk. It was a pretty place, not that Draco spared an eye for it as he stalked along Harbour Road, scowling at the ground, shoulders hunched up around his ears, ignoring the damned unsettling Muggle cars as they drove past now and then. His boots squelched, and he curled his lip in disgust. The Muggle library he'd gone to had provided him with a book that had a Muggle photograph of the mouth of the River Brora, and the shore around it. Draco had aimed for the shore, and landed knee deep in water and mud.

He'd been about to _scourgify_ and dry himself when a family of Muggles had come trotting past, the children frolicking like badly-behaved puppies, and he'd had to just start walking; thanking Merlin that they hadn't seen him apparate, as was he was utter shite at memory charms. And then an elderly couple had come walking along behind him as he'd slouched along the road, and cars had passed, and then there was a Muggle giving him a funny look as she hung out wet clothing on ropes on her front lawn. Draco just hadn't felt comfortable performing magic in front of all those eyes he could feel _staring_ at him, even when he couldn't actually see any Muggles, so he sneered ferociously to himself and slouched along towards the town centre, every sloshing step making him hate the world more and more.

The sky was clear and the chill breeze refreshing and Draco didn't care – just glared at the ground as he approached the rail bridge. He paused beneath it in the shadows at the side of the road and quickly cleaned and dried his jeans, boots and socks with a few waves of his wand, and then turned up onto a road labelled 'S Brae', feeling rather less hateful at the world now his jeans and boots were dry, as he crossed the bridge over the river and along into Brora proper. He gritted his teeth as he questioned the Muggles in the shops, finding them strange and alien, and yet still too similar to himself, or any witch or wizard. Alike, but unlike. If Muggles were completely strange, it would have been easier to hate them, and if they were more similar, it would be easier to _stop_ hating them, but as it was, they made Draco…uneasy, and a little disgusted, by them and by himself. He didn't like it. But Draco very ingratiatingly questioned the shopkeepers, polite and friendly, because the damned Muggles wouldn't help him if he was rude to them unless he hurt them. And he'd rather not do that.

Draco was sick of hurting things, whether they were lesser than him or not. He'd tried to explain it to Snape several weeks ago; _'I wouldn't consider a dog my equal, but I wouldn't fucking crucio it either.'_ Snape had given him a long, very strange look, but had said nothing except to warn Draco not to speak like that where he could be heard.

So Draco strode up and down the main street in his Muggle kit; black tee-shirt, bottle green hooded jersey, dark jeans and brand new black boots, his hair glamoured to a dark blonde-brown, and his wand out of sight up his sleeve. If he stumbled across Potter and the other two, hopefully they wouldn't immediately recognise him like this. He stopped in at the _Pharmacy_, which looked like an apothecary, the _Health Centre_, which was crammed disgustingly full of sick Muggles and turned Draco's stomach – some sort of Healer's, it seemed apparent – and a variety of other shops.

"I'm looking for some friends of mine – we're supposed to meet up here to go on holiday together, but I was held up, and it looks like they've gone and left without me, already. I was wondering if you'd seen them?" Draco asked the little old lady who sat behind the counter with her knitting in hand and stared at him placidly. He smiled his nicest smile, despising every moment of it, and widened his eyes slightly at the agreeable looking woman – Astoria had always told him that his eyes were his best feature. His smile vanished as he thought of Stori, and a horrible fucking lump of emotion choked in his throat and made his eyes threaten to water as his chest clamped tight.

"Och, ye poor boy," the woman said in a thick brogue. The stupid Muggle obviously thought he was upset about his friends. Dumb bitch, Draco thought viciously, making his grey eyes all wide and hopeful on her as he tried to push Stori back into the recesses of his mind. "But I'm not sure how I kin help ye."

"I thought maybe you might have seen them? There are three of them, all my age – a dark haired boy, about this tall, with glasses, another boy around my height, with ginger hair, and a girl with very bushy brown hair. I thought they might head up by rail to Helmsdale, because that's where we were supposed to be going, but I don't want to head off yet in case they're actually still here, and I miss them."

The old lady hadn't seen them. Draco felt the vein at his temple start to throb as he went to curry favour with the next Muggle.

"…have you seen them?"

"Sorry, son, but I havena. Have ye tried the inns and suchlike about?"

He hadn't. He went and did so, and came up empty-handed.

"P'raps the caravan park will've seen them?" The next shopkeeper offered helpfully. "Or they might be camping down the beach?"

"I'll try there. Thank you for your help."

The beach was beautiful, but empty, and Draco strode wearily back into town, heading down Rosslyn St this time. He tried the Post Office, Graham Begg, Sutherland Inn, and The Co-operative Food to no avail, and in the end accosted a random Muggle on the street, asking _him_ in desperation.

"No, no one like that, I'm afraid. Mebbe ye should try t' station, if ye havena already?"

"I will, thank you," Draco grated, smiling politely for what felt like the thousandth time, wishing he could burn this whole sodding village to the ground, and cursing himself an idiot for not thinking of inquiring at the station sooner. The rather imposing middle-aged Muggle at the station was very helpful, saying that she'd seen a group like that two days before, only the girl's hair had been short; but she'd mentioned Potter's scar, and that the girl had been very 'brusque', and Draco was bloody well sure it was them. Unfortunately the big Muggle woman explained apologetically that the last train of the day – Sunday – had just left, and there'd be none more 'til the next day, despite it only being two o'clock in the afternoon. Draco admitted temporary defeat and slogged back to the Sutherland Inn, and booked a room for the night.

Draco had stopped in at Gringotts before he'd apparated to Brora, and had pertinently withdrawn a very large amount of gold from the family vault - 500 galleons; more than enough to provide for whatever life might fling at him. He'd melted down around a hundred galleons of the gold and taken it in to a shop in Muggle London that Snape had told him about, a little place that exchanged the gold for Muggle currency – funny, dirty worthless-seeming coins and coloured rectangles of parchment-type stuff. This gave him what came out at what Draco worked out to be £500 – five hundred pounds, which he thought was an odd name for currency. Pounds were weight, not coin. Fucking weird Muggles. At any rate, the Sutherland Inn was £40 per night for a single room, which Draco paid for resentfully, thinking it was far too expensive; not used to Muggle prices.

Draco explored the room frowningly. He knew a bit about Muggle things – light switches, and other basics of _'alektrisity'_, like 'tellies' that played things kind of like photographs, only with sound, and 'jugs' that heated water for tea and coffee and such, and 'micro-wives', which were a sort of cooker thing that he supposed were for people who weren't married? The bathroom was all pretty much the same as a magical one, although it took quite a while for the water to heat up, in comparison. The bed was plain but just a bed, and even the 'telly' didn't take too long to figure out, although it scared the bloody shit out of him when he first turned it on and it blared at him deafeningly, earning a thump on the wall from the neighbouring room. The tiny kitchenette was probably what confused him the most, but he just ignored the Muggle _'alektrikel' _things and used his magic. The small, cold white box they kept little oddly wrapped bits of food and drink in gave Draco pause at first, but he soon figured out what it was, and couldn't help raising an eyebrow at Muggles' ingenuity.

He'd read the information left on the end table by the door though, and knew enough not to eat or drink from the white box, lest he want to pay prices that staggered belief. Instead Draco went down to the restaurant and ate a simple meal in a discreet corner, thinking darkly about how best to get himself and his parents' out of this damned mess, and coming up with nothing. He drank too much Muggle booze at the bar, and staggered upstairs to his room past midnight, falling onto the bed fully-clothed and passing out as soon as his head touched the pillow. Draco had a restless sleep, plagued with nightmares about his mother and father being murdered in front of him, about having his eyes gouged out by Voldemort, about having to kill Granger to save his mother's life, and worst of all, nightmares about _her_. Draco often dreamt about _her_, maybe because he never let himself think about her during the day. He jerked awake just before dawn with his cheeks wet with tears, her name on his lips, like some kind of sentimental fucking fool.

Astoria.

It still hurt.

**# # # # # #**

"I still think we shouldn't take trains. They're too easy to track," Hermione insisted sternly, eyeing Harry, who was playing with a flame at the end of his wand, whisking it through the air like a Muggle sparkler and making patterns with it. He scrawled her name in loopy, fiery letters in the air, and cast her a lazy smile. "Relax, Hermione. We move about too much to be found. We're fine."

Hermione frowned and looked away, staring at the lively little burn rushing by, icy cold and clear, where Ron was crouching on the muddy bank, trying and failing to catch the brown trout that slipped through the water. "Famous last words," she muttered, not agreeing with Harry and Ron's laissé faire attitudes over the past few days, her mood not improved by the fact that today and tomorrow were her turn to wear the horcrux. She scrunched down into the warm of her scarf and jersey, and tugged her hat down more firmly over her ears – even though the sheep valleys, as the locals called them, were sheltered from the worst of the cutting wind, it was still cold despite summer still clinging on by a thread.

"Oh, come on. Relax. There aren't any magical communities nearby – that's precisely why we're up this way. So who's to recognise us?"

"We should have apparated, then." Hermione reached out to her right and plucked several kingcups off a nearby plant and started making a cheery yellow chain of them to keep her chilled fingers busy, eyes on Ron, who was splashing and swearing in the stream, but insisted he was having a grand old time. Harry made a disgusted sound. "We didn't have any good photos of Helmsdale to fix on, and it was very clever of you to think of it, Hermione, don't get me wrong, but I _hate_ that new sort of apparition you've come up with. It's bloody _awful_."

"It's very useful!" Hermione defended her discovery indignantly, although Harry knew she agreed with him on it being awful. It involved focusing on a clear point near the horizon with a pair of binoculars, getting that point fixed in your mind, and disapparating there – nearly five kilometres crossed in under five minutes, on average, including the time spent reeling and retching after the apparition. And then rinse and repeat – over and over and _over_. It was a fast way to travel, but as tiring as walking the distance for the person apparating, and extremely nauseating to disapparate so many times in a row. Harry and Ron vocally detested it, and Hermione did so silently.

"Well it is, but it's still horrible. You have to admit it, Hermione. Spending an afternoon apparating to one spot after another in quick bloody succession and trying not to throw up everywhere isn't fun."

"It's less likely to get us spotted than taking a Muggle train in broad daylight," Hermione insisted, and then they both lapsed into weary silence. It was quite lovely down here in the sheep valley, with sunset coming on and casting the world into light and shadow – dark greens where the light couldn't reach, bathed in fiery shades where it could. Meadow sweet, kingcups, orchids, and other marsh flowers Hermione didn't know gave bits of colour in the gloomy parts of the valley, and shone where the light of the sun hit them. And Ron stood with a rather large fish in hand triumphant in the middle of the stream, and let out a whoop, and Harry chuckled and clapped exaggeratedly. The sunset caught Ron's hair and turned it to glinting flames, and he grinned at Hermione and Harry for a moment, waving the trout in the air before fumbling the wriggling fish and nearly dropping it, swearing up a storm as he held it tighter and splashed up out of the water.

"Slippery fucking bugger," Ron gasped, bending down by a rock jutting out of the stream bank and Hermione flinched as he cracked the fish over it violently with a crunch, without so much as a warning. "_God_, Ron."

"I had to put it out of its misery, 'Mione," Ron said apologetically, trying to still the fish's death spasms in both hands. "Besides, dinner won't catch itself!"

"We _have_ food, Ron."

"Ah, but the more we catch ourselves for free, the less money we have to steal from Muggles," Ron said archly, as he fished out a wicked looking pocket knife and began to expertly gut the thing down by the burn edge – he'd had a lot of experience over the last four years, as Hermione and Harry were both squeamish. "And I know how much you hate that." Ron shot Hermione a sly look over his shoulder and she stuck her tongue out at him, and tossed a kingcup that fell several metres short of Ron. "You're such an arse."

"Yeah, well so are you," he responded automatically, not looking up from his job of preparing the trout, and Hermione rolled her eyes. Things were finally evening out between her and Ron, after months of awkwardness. After a year on the run, with no other girls around to distract Ron from her, he'd finally noticed Hermione's existence as a potential female partner. They'd been together for two and half years, before things had finally petered out and fallen apart six months ago. Hermione would have thought she'd be devastated when she caught Ron snogging that Japanese Muggle, but funnily enough, she hadn't been. Just highly irritated that he'd gone behind her back and not had the bollocks to tell her he didn't want to be together anymore. Things had been falling apart for a good long time before then – when it came right down to it, they had only really been together because they'd had no one else to be with.

It was a strange thing, to realise the crush you'd held all through your pre-teen and teenage years had been destined to come to nothing, because you just weren't really suited. It hadn't been an explosive ending, although to be fair, they'd had a few rows when Ron had tried to apologise about his indiscretion. It had been a quiet, sad, inevitable sort of ending, which had left all of them, including Harry, a little lost for several months. It was only in the last month that they'd really found their comfort zone again – all friends together, with none of the awkwardness. Ron occasionally had a discreet snog with a Muggle, Harry quietly pined after Ginny, and Hermione…well, to her shame Hermione had still ended up in bed with Ron several times since their relationship had finished. It was hard to break old habits, and Ron really was comforting when she was feeling miserable, or sexually frustrated – because witches had needs too, damnit. And Ron was like an old shoe that fit her perfectly thanks to long wear, or someone who knew right where to scratch that itch you had, on the rare occasion you got itchy.

Hermione flushed red and focused on her kingcup chain, instead of Ron's broad back and shoulders, and the quick, sure movements of his hands with the pocket knife. She was terrible; acting like Lavender Brown – she should be ashamed of herself. Hermione hadn't ended up in bed with Ron in over a fortnight though, and she'd told him afterward that it had been the last time – and by Merlin, she meant it this time. There was no point in dragged things out between them with casual sex even if it didn't seem to affect their friendship negatively; Hermione wasn't that sort of girl. Hermione Jean Granger didn't have casual sex and _certainly_ not casual sex with her current best friend and ex-boyfriend, who had cheated on her.

She finished her kingcup coronet and reached over to Harry, yanking his woolly hat off and making him jump with fright, laying the bright yellow flower over his ruffled black hair. "There. Positively gorgeous," she said with satisfaction, and smiled at him, feeling a little more cheerful now, and Harry beamed crookedly at her, fingers going up to pat gingerly at the coronet. Ron snorted at the sight as he took the cleaned and ready trout through to the tent to be cooked. "Well, don't _you_ look pretty, Harry. Should I be calling you _Queen_ Harry?"

"Make sure you do, commoner," Harry said in plummy tones, glaring frightfully at Ron, and Hermione huffed quiet laughter at Harry's silliness. She shuffled over to Harry on the chill, damp grass, and leant her head on his shoulder, sighing quietly. It was nice, to find the good, silly moments in life. If they couldn't do that, they would have gone mad or lost hope a long, long time ago. Harry slung his arm around Hermione's shoulders and leant his flower-crowned head against hers, and sighed too. The light was dying, and the air was getting damper and chillier by the moment, but they didn't stir. Harry was warm against Hermione, and she against him, and for a while she could ignore the angry buzzing of the horcrux around her neck. And then the tent flap rustled.

"'Mione, could you cook the fish?" Ron called hopefully, and Hermione scowled. "_No!_" she shot back decisively. She was sick of being cook for the boys, day and night. "You caught it, you bloody cook it!"

"That's not fair!"

"Then let it o to waste," she snapped back, and Ron made a rude sound and disappeared back into the tent.

"Grouch," Harry said affectionately, and Hermione harrumphed. "He knows I hate cooking those poor fish he kills. And squirrels, and rabbits, and –"

"I know, I know. It's gross. But we should just be thankful that one of us _can _catch wild game. If it was left up to the two of us, we'd either steal all the time, or starve," Harry said fairly, and Hermione nodded. "I know. I just feel horrible, and I don't want to cook."

"Cramps?" Harry asked sympathetically, his hand slipping down Hermione's back to rub at the small of it, and she let out a little sigh of contentment as Harry hit a sore spot, and nodded.

Harry, unlike Ron, didn't get all embarrassed and awkward when talk of feminine hygiene came up; Hermione suspected it was his Muggle heritage. Muggles were far more open about that sort of thing than the wizarding world, which funnily enough was much more old-fashioned than Muggles, and actually used _cloth pads_. Of course, being as they had magic, witches could _scourgify _them easily, but still – Hermione wrinkled her nose up at the thought of cloth pads. Horrid. No, it was tampons all the way for Hermione, and if they were somewhere where she couldn't dispose of them the Muggle way, she just vanished them. It was the cramps that got her – she didn't get them often, but when she did, even ibuprofen or paracetamol didn't make a dent in them, and they had no potions to ease them either.

"I got an owl from Ginny last night," Harry said quietly, and there was a crinkling sound as he pulled the bit of parchment out of his pocket. "She's all right, and so is everyone else," he added to reassure her, because they were only supposed to owl or send patronuses in emergencies. Hermione felt sympathy pang through her for her friends, kept apart for four long years, having only seen each other in person a handful of times since their separation. "How is she?" Hermione asked softly – Harry wouldn't have mentioned the owl if he didn't want to share it with her. He cleared his throat, and began to read:

_Harry –_

"_Don't worry, everyone's fine. I miss you, though. I even miss Ron, blasted brother of mine. I can't believe he and Hermione broke up –"_

Here, Harry shot a nervous glance at Hermione, who had sat up and was watching Harry as he read. "I swear I didn't tell her, Hermione. Ron must've told her or something, though I don't know when."

Hermione laughed. "It's fine, Harry. I wrote to her a few months ago, and gave the letter to Lee Jordan when we saw him, to pass on to Ginny."

"Oh, good." Harry continued reading:

"– _But then he's such an idiot I suppose I shouldn't be surprised he'd screw things up. Anyway, I'm writing mostly to let you all know that Bill and Fleur have had a baby! A little girl, Victoire. She's absolutely beautiful – for a newborn, at least, which isn't saying much in my opinion. She's scrunchy and red and wrinkled, and cries a lot, and is utterly perfect according to everyone else. It took Fleur two days of labour, Bill nearly fainted, and mum is so swollen with grandmotherly pride I think she's going to explode. She's already knitted Victoire a Weasley family jersey, which I think horrified Fleur – she's still a stuck up cow. Although, to be fair, mum's jerseys are…unique. So tell Ron he's an Uncle, please, and give the big git a hug from me, and say 'hi' to Hermione, if you don't read this to her."_

Harry looked up at Hermione and scratched the back of his head, sending the coronet of kingcups lopsided, and smiled just as lopsidedly. "And then it's just, um, personal stuff." He blushed and Hermione went a little pink herself, and cleared her throat, saying quickly, "So Bill and Fleur had a baby? I didn't even know she was pregnant!" She felt horribly out of touch, and she couldn't imagine how much worse it must feel for Harry and Ron, whose girlfriend and family were the ones they were separated from. Oh, sure, Hermione was separated from her parents, but with the memory charms she'd performed on them, she couldn't be in contact with them; but technically Harry and Ron _could _be in contact with the people they loved. It just wasn't safe, so they refused to risk it.

"Well, it's the middle of August now, and we last saw them all in…mid-January, right?" Harry ventured, dark brows all crunched together as he tried to remember – the months all blurred together, especially this past year, with all the running they'd done. But Hermione though Harry was right – they'd stopped in at the Burrow mid-January for an afternoon, for a late Christmas celebration. "Yes. That sounds about right, Harry. Fleur must have only been coming up on three months pregnant then. She probably wasn't telling anyone yet – and she wasn't there anyway, she was sick."

"Ahh," Harry said knowingly, pleased with himself for figuring it out as he deduced, "It was probably morning sickness."

"Maybe," Hermione said absently, the gloom of dusk matching her mood.

She should have been happy to hear from Ginny, and hear the wonderful news about the newest little Weasley, but she wasn't. Hermione just felt more disconnected than ever, more cut off and isolated. The Weasleys' would always be _like_ family, but now that she'd given up on Ron altogether, they would never truly _be _Hermione's family. Her only family was a handful of Muggles scattered through England that she'd never had much to do with, and her parents off in Australia with currently no memory of her. Oh, of course Hermione had all her friends from Hogwarts, but if she was honest, they had mostly been Harry and Ron's friends or just acquaintances of hers, not real _friends_. She had been too bossy, too brusque, to make good friends. And besides, they were all scattered now anyway – dead, or in hiding, or fighting the war.

Hermione might as well be out here with Harry and Ron; she had nowhere else to be, and no one but these two who really, truly loved her.

"Earth to Hermione," Harry was looking down at her in the dying light, a faint, slightly worried smile on his face, holding out his hand to help her up. She blinked and tipped her face up to him, and clasped his hand, struggled to her feet with his help. "Sorry, Harry. I was just…lost in my thoughts."

"You sure were. The trout is ready. Ron just called – bloody well bellowed, actually – and you didn't even twitch. Just stared at the stream, and I swear to god you didn't blink for a full minute."

"I just drifted off. I'm tired, I suppose. My brain's overworked with all this research I've been doing. And I'm still no closer to working out how to destroy this horrid thing. Fiendfyre's too dangerous, and the…" Hermione broke off her mumbles with a gigantic yawn, her brain going onto autopilot as she brushed off the seat of her jeans and stretched cold, stiff muscles. Harry eyed her worriedly.

"Are you sure you're all right? You don't want me to take the horcrux tonight, do you?" he asked solicitously as they wandered over to the tent, nestled on a little piece of mostly flat grass right beside the wee burn. Hermione shook her head. "No, really, Harry, I'm fine. I'm just tired and achy and crampy, and well, miserable. But not filled with a horcrux rage tonight, don't worry."

"Okay then," Harry said as he ducked into the tent ahead of Hermione, the smell of slightly overdone fish greeting her the moment she stepped through the doorway. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure, Harry. But thank you."

Hermione smiled brightly and chattered about the new Weasley, baby Victoire, over blackened fish and tinned baked beans with Victoire's proud Uncle, and almost-certainly-Uncle-to-be. She toasted the child with a couple of mugs of cocoa liberally dosed with chocolate liqueur, and she and Harry teased Ron over the Muggle things he still didn't know much about, and laughed at Ron's funny stories, and nodded along patiently when the boys began chatting Quidditch. Hermione was, in fact, generally the life of the little three-person impromptu party they'd held in their homey tent that evening. But the night grew later, and before long Hermione made her excuses, and went through to her room, and finally dropped her happy mask.

Hermione lay beneath the covers and stared at the fabric that swathed the magical ceiling, telling herself that she wasn't going to get up and slip into Ron's bed once the two boys went to sleep, no matter how lonely she felt, because that could lead nowhere but trouble. But god was she lonely. _So_ lonely. Ron had his family to go back to after the war, and Harry had Ginny, and Hermione just had a trip to Australia, to find her parents, try to restore their addled memories, and explain to them why she'd essentially torn apart their minds and stolen however many years of their lives from them, without so much as consulting them. She didn't imagine they would be happy about that. So she had nothing to look forward to, nothing to keep her going, other than that the other side winning was unthinkable. There was no _reward_ waiting for her, at the conclusion of the war.

Her fingers played unconsciously with the locket as her thoughts tangled down darker and darker paths.

Midnight came and went, and she was aware, past her dulled, despairing thoughts, that the boys were getting more and more raucous – they were drinking too much. They were getting right trolleyed, when really one of them should be keeping watch. Hermione supposed she should go out there and keep watch herself, if neither of them were going to, but she didn't. She couldn't summon the energy to care, stuck in a downward spiral of despondency, which even though she _knew_ was mostly caused by the horcrux she still couldn't snap herself out of.

And then there was a crack, and then an explosion, and a yell, and Hermione jerked bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding in her chest wildly. _Attack_. They were being attacked. Terror suffused her as she heard more yells from out in the living area of the tent, and she wrenched the horcrux free from her neck and snapped the chain, implementing the contingency plan she'd decided on some months ago. In the dim light that filtered in from the living area, lit up now with the occasional flare of a hex or curse, Hermione waved her wand over the locket and shrank it down – non harmful spells worked fine on the magically protected horcrux, she'd tested it before – and then swallowed it. Disposing of the evidence and making sure that no one would know they had the horcrux, and no one could easily get to it. Of course, if the Death Eaters knew, they'd probably just slit her open, but…

Hermione was on her feet, bursting through the cloth that separated her from the living area, her wand up and ready, shivering from fear and cold, in just her thin pyjama trousers and tee shirt. She was confronted with shocks of light and her eyes scanned the scene. Draco Malfoy, Hermione realised after a confused moment, in Muggle clothes, his hair disconcertingly dark. It was _Draco Malfoy_, alone by the looks of it, and Hermione's head whirled and her stomach felt sick – although that could have just been the horcrux. Ron was swaying on his feet, bloodied and dazed, wand hanging loose in his hand, while Harry duelled fiercely with Malfoy – but he was losing. He was drunk, they were both _drunk_ she remembered furiously, and then stalked forward and slashed her wand, a cutting hex that sliced across Malfoy's arm opening a deep gash.

He whirled on her and whipped his wand around silently, and she felt a force hit her hard, smashing the air out of her, and then she was flying back, arms and legs flailing helplessly. Her back and head cracked into a tent pole and she screamed despite herself, her wand flying from her hand on impact, the world spinning. She fell heavily, sick and retching and dazed. Shoving herself to all fours and searching for her wand with shaking hands. Harry was screaming spells, furious and determined, Ron managing the occasional hex although it sounded like he was about to pass out, and she was still searching for her _damn_ wand. Malfoy was strangely silent – it sounded like Harry and Ron were duelling with thin air, and Hermione dizzily looked up to see the tall Death Eater, shielding and dodging and casting hexes with a grim expression on his face. Lips flattened and nostrils flared, the vein in his temple throbbing.

She needed her wand, she reminded herself confusedly, and turned back to searching the tent floor with frantic hands. And then – thank Merlin – she heard Harry make a yell of triumph, and a groan that must have come from Malfoy cut the air. Hermione spun around on all fours to see what was going on, and then Malfoy was looming over her and she jerked back with a shriek as he bent down and seized her arm in an iron grip. Hermione screamed with anger and fear again, lashing out with her fists and feet, catching Malfoy in the cheek and jaw with two wild punches, and kneeing him hard in the shin. She could hear Ron roaring something, and Harry yelling, but then Malfoy had wrenched Hermione to her feet, fighting him all the way – thrashing in his arms because she couldn't let this happen. She couldn't be captured and tortured. She could be bait. Couldn't fail Harry. Couldn't couldn't couldn't. She smacked her head back and struck Malfoy's chest ineffectively, tried to wriggle away from him like the fish Ron had caught earlier, stomped her foot down on his, but her bare heel had little effect on his booted toes.

She was screaming, she knew. Obscenities that weren't at all like her. _"Let me go you __**bastard**__, let me go, I'll fucking __**kill**__ you Malfoy, let me go, I hate you, fuck, shit, bastard let me –"_ And then Malfoy's wand jammed into her temple and everything, including herself, froze. A silence descended over the tent, like death, like the eye of the storm, and Hermione drew in a shuddering breath. Malfoy held her upper arm so hard it felt like the _bastard_ was going to break it in two, keeping her locked in front of him like a human shield, his wand at her head, and Harry and Ron were staring at Hermione and Malfoy in horror. She tried to test whether she could tug free, and Malfoy just tightened his grip with a growl.

"Let her go," Ron said in a voice that shook with fury, and Malfoy's chest moved against her back as he dragged in breath that sounded painful. _Good. _"No. Drop your wands or I'll kill her."

Harry's eyes flicked to Hermione's throat suddenly. "Hermione, where's the –" She glared at him and he snapped his mouth shut, but the damage was done. Malfoy shook her like an animal, until her teeth rattled in her head and it felt like he was going to give her whiplash. She _hated_ him. "Where's the what, Granger? Potter? Tell me, or I won't kill her, I'll just make you all _wish_ I had."

"Harry, don't –"

"Shut up, mudblood."

Harry was silent for a second, and then, his whole face drained of colour, he muttered, "A Hallow. We have a Deathly Hallow."

Malfoy snorted; an evil, horrible sound. "You mean you have a horcrux, Potter?"

"How…?"

"My godfather, of course, Potter, you _idiot_. Anyone with a sufficiently focused mind can learn Legilimency and Occlumency, which must be why you never _could._ So, mudblood Granger had the horcrux tonight. Where is it then?" Malfoy shook her again, and she whimpered involuntarily as her aching head and back flared into shooting pains. "Where?" he demanded, hand twisting on her arm and desperation clear in his voice, and Hermione winced. "I threw – threw it away."

"Liar. I don't even have to look in your fucking eyes to know you're lying. _Tell me_." His hand twisted and his wand drove harder against her skin, and Hermione was dazed and scared and in pain, and she coked, "I swallowed it!" Tears immediately clouded her eyes, and she wished she could take it back, but it was too late. Too late. Oh Merlin, she was such a _coward_.

"It's all right, Hermione, it's all –" Ron was saying, trying to reassure her, and Malfoy was mumbling to himself like a madman, "Granger and the horcrux. Granger and the horcrux. Two for the price of one? Shit. Shit, I should take them both back…_shit_…"

Hermione's blood ran cold. Voldemort would be positively ecstatic to have her, and one of his horcruxes, dropped into his lap. And she would get to die an excruciating, slow death – _if_ she was lucky. Hermione trembled. She couldn't be brave in the face of _that_, she just couldn't. She couldn't go through torture and suffering and humiliation and…

"Malfoy…we can talk about –" Harry began, and then Hermione felt herself spin on the spot along with Malfoy, and the sickness of displacement rushed over her, and she wanted to shriek with rage but they were already apparating, away from Harry and Ron, away, away. Oh Merlin, _no. _Hermione always tried to be as brave as she could be, to be worthy of being in Gryffindor, but she couldn't face Voldemort, she couldn't. She would rather die. She'd heard what they did to those they caught, these days. She'd heard the stories, and had nightmares about them.

She would rather die.

All this flashed through her mind in the split second as they were disapparating, and Hermione came to her decision and fought Malfoy, just as they wrenched out of existence. Everything was rushing by, and she tried to get away from Malfoy because she'd rather be fatally splinched than be taken to Voldemort and used as a toy and hurt and mutilated and…a searing pain went through her thigh and she screamed aloud just as they tumbled onto plain, hardy, dark blue carpet. Her blood was drenching it. She fell back and screamed, staring up at Muggle light fixtures. Malfoy hadn't taken her to Voldemort, she thought dazedly, the pain ripping through her like nothing else she'd ever felt. She felt herself spasm and her heart jerk in her chest, and as if from very, very far away, could hear Malfoy swearing at her, saying horrible, awful things.

Suddenly her wretched screams were silenced – Malfoy had cast a _silencio_ on her, she realised muzzily through the pain, and she hated him for taking her voice away because she _needed_ to scream. And then hands were on her, ripping away her pyjama trousers with no heed for her modesty, and her thigh _hurt _and _hurt_, and she twisted her head to look down. A blurred, nightmarish view of Malfoy hunched over her, her thigh a dripping mass of bloody, splinched meat, his wand waving as he muttered a lilting healing spell through fear-white lips. Her head fell back to the carpet with a thunk, she stared up at the flickering white bulb with the moths banging into it and dying. Her mouth was stretched wide with soundless screams, and her hands were fists, short nails cutting into her palms. Malfoy's voice cut through her pain, healing her, afraid, _furious_.

He hadn't taken her to Voldemort – _why _hadn't he; what did he have planned, Hermione wondered blearily, a last lightening sharp moment of clarity through the agony, and the blood loss. And then the last of her coherency failed her, and she passed into the comforting, painless, depths of blackness.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **I quite like the idea of apparating to places using photos – risky I would imagine, but if you need to get somewhere that isn't on the floo network in a hurry, worth it (all the credit to everythursday for that idea. And, ah, YOU GUYS. If somehow you haven't read her fics at Hawthorn and Vine? Go. And. Read. Them. Now. She is _amazing._) The idea of using binoculars to apparate in more extreme situations, is my own little idea, and I thought it'd be a great way to travel long distances fast – in a pinch, because it really would suck.

The Galleon to pound exchange rate, I got from the Harry Potter wikia.

So, Draco has history with Astoria, and Hermione and Ron were together. We'll hear more about Draco and Astoria, but probably not a _lot _more about Hermione and Ron.

It was really fun researching Brora and Helmsdale and the general area, although I'm sure there are things I've utterly butchered, of course. I apologise for that!

It was also immensely fun writing Draco wandering around a Muggle town – I don't know if it bored you to tears, but it tickled me pink, to think of him gritting his teeth and going about chatting nicely to all the Muggles, and being confused by the hotel room.

And, I loved writing the Trio this chapter. I heart their little mostly-platonic three-way-thing they have going on. They're such good friends :)

And now the Draco/Hermione fun begins…

**As always, please review!**


	3. Covered in Dirt

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for all the amazing, positive reviews! I'm sorry I haven't gotten around to replying to all of you yet, but please know that I appreciate every single review – reading that you liked the chapter/story makes my day :)

This chapter – a whole lotta angst and antagonism!

**# # # # # #**

_**3. Shearing Away, or, Covered in Dirt**_

Draco had panicked. He was still fucking panicking. Hermione fucking Granger was unconscious, bleeding to death on the floor of the Sutherland Inn. His body was still being racked periodically by debilitating spasms and pain from the hex Potter had flung at him, and the bleeding in his arm that Granger had inflicted wasn't slowing either. He tried to keep his panic buttoned down though, murmuring the words that Snape had taught him, to return the blood to Granger's body and heal her wound. Salazar's balls but it was hard to sustain, especially with the tremors and the pain taking him, but Draco knew he _couldn't_ let her die. He might hate the mudblood, but he couldn't just let her – he cut off his disgustingly weak thoughts, and replaced them with the equally true and far more palatable, _'I need her. I'm going to need her'_.

The spell was working, the blood seeping out of where it had soaked into the carpet and rushing across it, back up to the ruined meat of her thigh and inside her again, and Draco stared, fascinated. Dark, dark red blood. It didn't _look_ any different, but then it never had, had it? He'd spilt enough blood – seen enough spilt – that he knew whatever the differences were, they weren't visible. They didn't have to be, though. He tried to make sure he didn't touch her blood, or touch her at all. The idea made his skin crawl with…fear. He thought it was fear, mostly, if he was honest. But he didn't know what he was afraid of. He kept moving his lips, the spell stuttering and faltering as the searing agony Potter had planted in Draco's chest flared to life again, like liquid fire. His muscles ratcheted tight, all cramping horribly, the tendons in his neck standing out rigidly as his head was flung back by the spasms, and he held his breath and tried not to scream.

He fixed the bitch's leg before he tried to heal himself. He wanted to leave her, just to teach her a fucking lesson for being so unbelievably stupid as to try to pull away from him mid-apparition, but if he did that, she'd bleed to death. She'd taken a huge chunk out of her thigh, struggling like that during the disapparation; had she been _trying _to get herself killed? Merlin, she probably bloody had, Draco realized, and he felt sick and disgusted with everything and everyone, suddenly _furious_ with the entire world and everyone in it. Granger had probably thought death was better than what Draco Malfoy would have in store for her. That made him feel a little uncomfortable, and more than a little pissed off. Didn't she remember that he'd risked his fucking life to get that Polyjuice to Potter, when they'd been captured? That had been the only thing keeping Potter from being recognised, once the stinging hex Granger had used on the Golden Boy had worn off. He'd fucking saved their miserable lives; you'd think she'd realise that Draco wasn't a _monster_ at least. Fine, he was a Death Eater, and he was a bastard, but he wasn't a _monster_.

Was he?

The last bit of her wound closed over at last under the waves of his wand and slur of soft words from his dry, numb lips. It left a ragged scar down the outside of her left thigh from hip to knee; a thick, raised line of livid purple marring the otherwise darkly cream, smooth flesh. Draco swallowed, throat suddenly dry and tongue thick in his mouth. Her pyjamas were torn apart by his own frantic hands, and her knickers were bright red cotton trimmed with lace, that toned with the few remaining stains of her dirty blood on her leg, and caught his eye despite himself.

Fuck.

He was feeling the sudden slightly-aroused interest that came with being young and male, and confronted with a half-naked woman who wasn't half bad looking, even if it was Granger. She wasn't an ugly witch, anymore, just a fucking irritating one. It was perfectly natural, to think for an idle moment about fucking her; Draco imagined even Potter would. Just instinct. Natural reaction. It wasn't like he actually wanted to – the thought had just popped into his head, unbidden.

Astoria; he thought of her deliberately, feeling uncomfortable evoking her memory _now_, but he knew any thought of her would make his stupid physical reaction regarding Granger's body melt away. Leaf-green eyes and long honey hair, skin browned lightly by the sun, no more than five feet tall to his six foot two, and built with delicate lines. Like a dryad, Draco had always thought. Beautiful and elegant, and her mouth so soft and willing, although she'd never parted her legs to him. And Granger was a _fucking filthy mudblood, _who would happily clap Draco away in Azkaban if she could. Who, when she woke was probably not going to thank him for saving her miserable life, but claw his eyes out, or some ungrateful kind of shit.

She was a fucking self-righteous _bitch_, Draco told himself roughly, glazed eyes still on the juncture of her thighs, the thin red cotton and the soft fuzz he could barely see beneath it_. Fuck. _That was just _wrong_, to think of her like that, even involuntarily, and Draco felt suddenly ill and all twisted up, and bile rose in his throat. He blinked and looked away, cleared his throat, feeling just as dirty as she was for noticing even for a _second_ that Granger was a woman, despite here blood status – and then he bit his tongue when another round of seizing, agonizing cramps came on, the feeling of fire darting along his veins. Bit it hard enough that blood ran out of his mouth, and down his chin, and he crumpled up with the pain, his fists balling up on the ground and his forehead knocking hard against the carpet by Granger's half-clothed, unconscious body as he hunched over on his knees.

_Fucking_ Potter and his _fucking_ hexes. It was like _sectumsempra _all over again.

The pain passed after a very, very long moment, and Draco figured he had another two minutes or so before it came again, and each time it seemed to be getting worse. He rummaged through his rucksack and pulled out some dittany that he dripped on the gash in his arm, his movements quick, but shaky from panic, blood loss and shock. He didn't know what he'd done, didn't know _what _the hell he was doing. He'd freaked out, when Potter had hit him with that hex, and realised that between the three of them, there was little chance Draco would win, even if Potter and Weasley did seem drunk. So he'd taken his chance to grab Granger to stave off Potter and Weasley for a moment, and then when he'd found out she had the horcrux, a mad, utterly insane plan had blossomed violently into life in his brain.

_Hostages._

Just the one thought, at first, the one word – _hostages_. A way out. It had come together in Draco's head fast, if very roughly, and he still had no idea if it would work, or he'd just end up dead. But it was maybe a way out of this whole damn war. He had something the Order wanted alive, and something Voldemort wanted kept whole; Draco had heard Voldemort talking to someone about the horcruxes just over a year ago. He'd done a lot of eavesdropping at the manor, over the past four years. When you were living with a madman it was best to try to keep abreast of his plans, so you could avoid being in the path of destruction, if that was possible. So, Granger had a horcrux. Had _swallowed_ a horcrux, the dizzy bint.

Draco had both Granger and a horcrux, all in one neat, wandless package, he thought to himself as he knelt on the carpet by her still unconscious form and performed a complex binding spell to 'leash' Granger to him. The spell inflicted a proportional amount of pain depending on how far away the subject was from the caster; the further away Granger went from him, the more pain she would feel, along with a growing itching compulsion to go back to him, if somehow she managed to master the pain. It stated that a two metre distance was the limit of comfort before the compulsion began to have any noticeable effect, and at three metres the pain began. It would have to do, Draco thought – he could always alter it later. He focused hard and tried to keep his hand from shaking as he finished the spell; a little _zing_ shivering through him telling him that he'd – probably – performed the spell correctly.

Draco's mind raced as he flipped through _The Complete Counters: Common Curse, Hex, & Jinx Reversals_ – one of the many books he'd wisely packed in his rucksack – looking for the hex Potter had inflicted on him. He was rapidly running out of time before it happened again, he was sure. He flipped through the pages, thinking hard. If the Order came after Draco he could threaten to kill Granger unless they left him alone, and if Voldemort sent Death Eaters after Draco, he could threaten to destroy the horcrux. And just to sweeten the pot for Voldemort, Draco could mention that seeing as he had Granger and the Order was loath to attack him, the horcrux was probably safer with Draco, on the run, than anywhere Voldemort could hide it. Voldemort wouldn't be happy, but Draco might just be safe.

Yes. That was definitely a better plan than – the pain hit him, and everything was driven out of his head. Draco slumped again, and his fist curled and twisted on the very page where he could see, cheek mushed against the book, the counter-curse. His teeth ground together and his back arched and he fell onto his back on the carpet. Merlin the _pain_. It seared along every inch of him – fire, _fire, _oh _shit_ it hurt so badly – tearing him apart, eating him alive.

"Nggh…ah-a-a…nnn…" A whining groan of pain wrenched from between Draco's clenched teeth as his head jerked back and his arms felt like they were going to rip off; his heels drummed on the floor and his back bowed until he thought his spine was going to snap. Oh _fuck_. Oh it _hurt_. It _hurt_. Tears soaked his cheeks and his fingernails dug deep ditches into his palms, his body contorted and writhed on the floor next Granger's still one. He tried not to scream; he couldn't afford the Muggles hearing and coming to investigate, he thought through a fog of red raw pain. His teeth sank into his tongue and he was too lost in the agony to be afraid of biting it right off, but the blood was drowning him – he was vaguely aware of that. Pain. Draco sobbed and choked and writhed, his twisting muscles flipping him onto his face, hands clawing at the carpet, face pressed into the rough nap of it. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't – couldn't…

And then the pain was gone. Blessedly, wonderfully, blissfully gone, and he slumped limp to the floor for a moment, before nausea hit him. He jerked, face contorting, stomach lurching – all the spasms that had recently racked him probably the trigger for this sudden, urgent need to empty his stomach. Undignified, Draco scrambled on hands and knees for the bathroom, every muscle aching and hurting, stumbling to his feet and slamming the bathroom door open, staggering to the spotless porcelain bowl and emptying his meagre stomach contents. He heard a whimper and a groan as he sat back onto the floor, convulsions past, and knocked his head limply back against the wall, and realised Granger must be awake. There were desperate, horrible, wretched groans, and the sounds of scraping and shuffling coming closer as Draco fought to not throw up, and then a hand slapped down onto the grey, slick flooring of the bathroom, and Granger dragged herself into view on all fours and slumped down on her stomach. Her eyes were wild and unfocused, a deep vertical line between her dark brows writing pain on her face, her short hair looking alien.

"What?" she gasped, as if she was only just pulling herself up to consciousness now, and then cried out again as she tried to sit up, clutching at her thigh and seeming horrified and confused by the fact that it was both badly scarred and mostly healed. It had been the binding spell, he knew immediately – it had roused Granger from her unconscious state and forced her to try to find him, to ease the pain. He felt a little guilty, _almost_ – he hadn't thought about Granger, when he'd stumbled for the bathroom, and apparently the pain got quite intense after four metres separation. Draco tried to shove down the roiling sickness in his stomach, glaring hatred at the mudblood as she huddled in the doorway, realising now that her pyjamas were shredded and she was exposed, her cheeks going red with embarrassment.

"What – what…" Granger was shaking, and Draco could see her leaning involuntarily towards him and then pulling herself back again – fighting the lowest level of the compulsion – drawing her knees up to her chest and huddling against the doorframe. Draco watched with his head tipped weakly back against the wall as Granger ran her hands over her thin top, and tried to discreetly check her knickers were still on. Her face was stark with terror and fear as she pulled off her torn and shredded pyjamas that had been hooked down just below her knees, and balled them up, clutching the fabric against her defensively.

"What did you _do_ to me?" Horror in her voice, and Draco caught her implication and sneered with disgust. "You're welcome, Granger."

"What did you _do?_" Her voice rose to a shrill at that, her eyes huge and scared and disgusted, and Draco winced and his stomach lurched. For fucks sake, did she really think he'd do _that?_

"I healed you, you ungrateful _bitch_. After you nearly splinched yourself to death, I fucking well _healed _you. And don't worry, I touched you as little as possible. You can't really think I'd want to sully myself by touching _you_, can you?"

"_I hate you_." Granger spat the words even as she was ever so slowly inching across the floor towards him. Huh. Draco might have to adjust that binding spell; he really didn't want Granger clinging to him. His spine crawled as she made a low, throaty sort of moan, and clutched at her thigh. "Merlin…" Her eyes shot sparks at him from within bruised hollows. "If you healed me, why does it hurt so much? What else did you do, that's making me – why I hurt all over, why I couldn't help wanting – needing – to come in here…? Where are we? And what the hell do you think you're going to do with me?" Then, adding under her breath – not for Draco's ears but his hearing was very good; all that eavesdropping, "You filthy, pathetic spineless _arsehole_."

Draco cocked an eyebrow, not letting the insults get under his skin. So, Granger was still as feisty a fucking bitch as ever. He wasn't surprised, somehow. He ticked off her questions on his fingers, still slumped back against the wall, while she sat, unmoving, a scarce metre from him. "One, because why the fuck would I bother wasting my pain potions or ointments on you, Granger? Two, I put a binding spell on you that will keep you from trying to escape – a compulsion to stay near me, pain if you don't. Three, we're in a Muggle Inn. And finally –" There was no harm in telling her. "– You and that lovely little horcrux you swallowed, are my ticket out of this damned war. What am I going to do to you? Nothing villainous, or evil and _monstrous_, if you're worried – or should I say, _hopeful_ that I might decide to touch –"

"Oh go to hell, Malfoy. You're _sick._" She was curled up tightly, her chin on her knees and her arms around her legs, hate and fear all tangled on her face. Draco shifted forward so he was hunched on the balls of his feet just in front of her, one hand bracing himself and the other stabbing a finger at Granger viciously.

"You're my hostage. That's all. Nothing more, nothing less. I don't want to fucking die for either side of this fucking _stupid_ war, and I don't want my parents to die either. And now I don't _have_ to. I've got you to make the Order behave, and that pretty little horcrux in your stomach to keep Voldemort in line, and stop him from killing my parents." He sneered down at her. "You'll probably be safer with me than you were running around with Scarhead and the Weasel."

"You can't hold me forever. You can't –" Her breath was growing jagged, her shoulders were rising and falling raggedly as she heaved in panicked breath, staring up at his face. "What if the war goes on for years, Malfoy? You can't –"

"Watch me, mudblood. Having to put up with your company is a high price to pay, but it's still worth the survival of my parents and I," he hissed, pushing his face forward so they were only inches apart, and her filthy breath was hot on his throat as she stared up at him, radiating hatred.

"I'll escape, eventually. You're just a coward, Malfoy. Just a weak, useless –"

He made himself grin ferally, even though he wanted to slap her so badly – shut that fat fucking mouth of hers. "Escape? Escape, Granger? Look at you – you can't even stay more than a metre away from me. If you try to _escape_, you'll end up a pathetic little ball of pain, crawling desperately back to me."

He was smirking in her face when she lashed out, a fucking sucker punch to the jaw that made his head snap back and his vision fill with blurry starbursts. He grunted and then laughed, just because he knew it'd piss her off.

"Fuck you, Malfoy!"

"Really, mudblood? Fuck _me?_ You sure you mean that? Because remember who's got the power here. _Me_. So if I decide I want to sully myself by –" he began to taunt Granger, and her face crumpled up with horror and disgust and hurt, and Draco stopped abruptly, feeling almost ashamed for a moment, like he'd crossed a line between them that, despite their mutual hatred, shouldn't be crossed. He was about to open his mouth and issue some snarky reminder that he'd _never_ want to touch her – meant to both irritate and reassure her about what he was and wasn't willing to do – when Granger's jaw squared, her chin jutted up into the air, and the bitch lashed out again.

Granger's hand snapped forward, and she slapped Draco hard enough across the fucking ear that a ringing sound burst through his skull and his vision blurred briefly. He recoiled and swore with furious shock, and she went to do it again, her teeth bared viciously, her eyes wild. Draco caught her wrist before she struck and clamped his hand down hard, calculated to hurt her and fucking well make her snap out of it. She yelped and twisted in his grip like an eel, all balled up and tipping over backwards so he fell forward and both her feet slammed out into his abdomen. The breath whooshed out of him and he gasped for air that wouldn't come – winded, but still scrabbling at Granger, trying to grab her wrists, not about to let her get the upper hand. He was on top of her now, using his weight to pin her, she thrashing beneath him.

"Get – off –" Granger was panting and gasping and her fists beat at his head and shoulders, and Draco was just about ready to just punch her in the fucking face. Except his mother had taught him never to hit girls – apparently using the _Cruciatus _on them was fine, but not hitting them. The Malfoys' had _standards_, apparently. Draco was sprawled over her his legs holding hers down, and his head twisted down and away to try to protect it from her fists. He finally managed to catch her wrists in his hands, transferring them to one hand, and holding them out above her head, and she wriggled and thrashed but couldn't do a bloody thing. Draco caught his breath and smirked down at her, and she bared her teeth at him, trying to wrench her hands free of his grip and failing, and then flinching when he put his hand on her hip to pin her down.

"Get off me!" She sounded strangled and sick, and she was breathing so fast it sounded like she was going to hyperventilate. "Get off me, get off me. Malfoy, please, I can't – can't…" Big brown eyes terrified and pleading on him, drawing him like magnets. "Please don't…do anything…" Her voice was small and unsure and shaking, and Draco made a harsh sound of disgust and wrinkled up his forehead in disbelief and irritation.

"I'm not fucking _going_ to, Granger! Merlin's fucking balls, I just told you before that I'm not going to do anything to you, you stupid bint. I'm trying to fucking hold you _still._"

Granger looked away, shifted beneath him and Draco was acutely aware of all the places they pressed into each other; his hips nestled and fitted to hers, his legs positioned to hold hers down, her hands stretched above her head, their faces inches apart. His skin crawled at the contact.

"I know," she snapped, sounding embarrassed along with her fury and fear. "But I didn't know if I could trust the word of a man who assaulted and kidnapped me, put a binding spell on me, and is holding me hostage." Her voice was brittle and cutting, although still shaking, her face twisted to the side, her shorn head making her not look like Hermione Granger at all.

"Fair enough." The know-it-all had a point. Of course. When didn't Granger have a point? Draco smirked smugly at her sharp look of surprise at his capitulation, and got up off her awkwardly, ready to subdue her again if need be. He rather hoped the need wouldn't arise, because he was in no state to be physically struggling with anyone, and the next bit of trouble Granger gave him, he decided he'd stop her with a good dose of magic. If she wanted to spend the next 24 hours bound up in an _incarcerous_, then she bloody well could. It was no skin off Draco's nose. His mother had never said anything about not tying girls up. He stood with his back to the bathroom wall and his wand in his hand, Granger about two feet away from him, struggling to sit up.

He sniffed at her, and twirled his wand in his hand, casual and superior – imprinting the fact that he was in control into her stubborn bloody head. "Try to escape and I'll have you in an _incarcerous _for a bloody week," he warned her, and then left the bathroom. Draco figured out how to put the Muggle jug in the kitchenette on, and then jumped up onto the bench and watched the bathroom doorway, waiting for Granger to emerge. He wondered how long it would take for her to give in to the pain and compulsion – the bathroom was at least four metres from where he sat. He timed her, smiling to himself and listening to the Muggle jug operating; it rumbled away and he hoped it wasn't going to explode or anything like that. That was the last thing Draco needed right now.

It took three minutes and 27 seconds for Granger to even make a sound, let alone come out. Draco was almost impressed by the witch's stubbornness. He was just pouring the hot water into the mug to brew his Earl Grey tea – cheap Muggle stuff in a little bag, which he was unfamiliar with, but nonetheless smelt rather nice – when he heard a whimpering coming from the bathroom. He sat the jug gingerly back into its _'__alektrikel' _base, and meandered through to the bathroom, the volume of the sobbing whimpers decreasing as he drew nearer. Granger was hunched over on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, rocking back and forth and crying miserably. She glared up at him when he came in, but she couldn't hide the physical relief that his approach brought her. She didn't stir though, didn't make to get up – it looked as though she was determined to spend all night in the damn bathroom, fighting the pain. Well, if she wanted to be pointlessly stubborn, then so be it.

"Torturing yourself isn't doing anything, you know," he commented mildly, a hint of amusement in his tone, because Granger was so fucking predictable. She was such a bloody Gryffindor – noble, courageous, and as stubborn as a fucking mule. She ignored him, her reddened eyes staring blankly past him, her lips flattened together. "All right then. Well. I'm going to go have a cup of tea. Feel free to join me, when you're ready." He shot her a smarmy smile along with his gratingly civil tone, which he _knew_ had to get on her nerves, and made to turn for the door.

"_I hate you._" Granger hissed it at him venomously, her face utterly stony with the hatred she'd professed; and then she buried her face into the hollow between her drawn up knees and her chest, and began to cry again. Draco pushed away the brief flicker of conscience at the sight of such misery. "The feeling's mutual," he drawled and turned on his heel, leaving Granger to choose between accepting her situation and not making it harder on herself than it had to be, and being a stubborn idiot and staying in the bathroom. He didn't want his tea to brew too long, and he wasn't going to waste his time on Granger. Something hit him hard in the back of the head as he walked out, and he clapped his hand to his head and spun around, seeing a bar of wrapped soap on the floor, and Granger glaring daggers at him.

Draco gritted his teeth and stalked back to Granger; because this was going to be a long-term situation and if she just accepted it, it would be…well, not pleasant, but far more bearable, for both of them. He needed to make her accept it. And Merlin fucking damnit, he was not going to have the mudblood bitch get away with throwing shit at him. She stared up at him sullenly as if daring him to hurt her, to react, arms tangled around her legs, eyes narrowed and lips curled in a sneer that looked as unfamiliar on her as her short hair did.

"You want to do this the hard way, Granger?" he snarled, his heart beating quick and fast, because damnit he was weak and a coward, and he didn't _like_ causing pain anymore, he didn't _like_ making people afraid of him. Oh sure, with Granger there was some satisfaction because he intensely fucking disliked her, but still…it made Draco feel wrong to draw on what he'd learnt as a Death Eater. "You want to do this the hard way, then we'll do it the fucking hard way."

She just glared up at him, and quick as a snake he struck, one hand grabbing her thin shoulder, feeling the bones shift beneath her skin, the other hand wrapping around the column of her throat. Granger choked and kicked, sudden surprised terror coming into her eyes as Draco hauled her to her feet by her shoulder and throat, and walked forwards, slamming her into the wall, his eyes glued to her bloodshot brown ones. He held her up so her toes barely touched the ground, so that her breath could barely strangle in, and his flesh itched as if her filth was seeping onto him, or maybe as if what he was doing to her made _him_ the filthy one. Right now that actually seemed more likely. Her hands flailed out and he tightened his hand around the delicate flesh and bones of her throat, fingers and thumb carefully compressing the carotid arteries, and squeezing until her struggles began to falter.

And then Draco released the pressure slightly, put his mouth to her ear, and in a low, hard voice, explained the situation to the stubborn witch. "All right, Granger, listen to me now, very carefully. I don't want to be part of this Merlin-damned war anymore. I want no part in it. I don't want to take any fucking side; I just want my parents to be safe, and for me to be _left the hell alone_. And then fate drops you and a horcrux in my lap, and suddenly, I might have a way to achieve that. Now, I don't fucking like you, Granger, but I have no real desire to hurt you. Don't _make me have to do it._ This will all be a lot easier if you just cooperate."

She was rasping for breath, her eyes wide on his and wild, glazed as she struggled to keep breathing, but no longer fighting his grip on her.

"Do you understand me?" Draco asked her carefully, and she nodded as much as she could with his hand around her throat, croaked a _'yes'_ that he could barely hear. He let her go immediately; easing her to the ground, and in a moment of guilt,] left his hand on her shoulder to steady her when her legs wobbled and she nearly fell. She swayed and shot him a wounded, defeated look that almost made him feel bad about being such an arsehole, but then he didn't see that he'd had much choice. He stepped back, ready for her to go for him again, but she just stood there, her eyes dropping from his face to the floor, and he could see the tears brimming over.

"I hate you," she said again, but it was small and forlorn now, and filled with miserable, wretched resignation.

"I really don't give a fuck, Granger," Draco answered lightly, and then left the bathroom for the kitchenette again; his tea would be getting over-strong and cold. He hitched himself back up onto the bench, long legs swinging, and waited for her to come out again. This time she appeared in the doorway after just thirty seconds, clutching one of the complimentary towels around her waist, her shredded pyjama trousers in one hand, and her eyes on the floor. She walked towards him with a stumble and limp in her step, as if her leg was hindering her – and Draco had no doubt it was. He'd fixed the wound to a certain extent, but a lot of the damage would take time to heal. Granger's face was screwed up with hurt and revulsion as she limped over to the bench where he sat, obviously not enjoying either the pain or the compulsion of the binding spell.

"If you behave for a while, and I decide I can give you some small amount of trust, I'll lengthen your little leash," Draco said cuttingly, and then sipped at his tea as if he were completely relaxed and in control, instead of actually still panicking deep down inside, and feeling sick and terrified over this whole thing. Granger stared at him for a disbelieving, horror-struck second, as if the full extent of the situation had only just hit her, and then she ungracefully slumped to the floor by his dangling feet, and started to cry.

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**Author's Note: **Wow, so much angst! What did you think? Did you like? **Please review! **

Next chapter will be either completely or mostly from Hermione's POV, and will be a _little_ more positive; focused on her adjusting to the grim reality of the situation, them both kind of trying to find a way to make it not _utterly _awful, and negotiating the enormous embarrassments of living for an indefinite length of time in such close quarters with Draco Malfoy.


	4. The Brittle Skin

**Author's Note: **First off,I'm so sorry updates have been nonexistent lately! Loads of real life stuff has destroyed both my opportunities to write, and my will to do so. I'm not abandoning any of my Dramione fics, though – updating may just be scarce and infrequent for a while. I will try to do better, though, and not leave you all hanging too long between updates :) Thank you to all my lovely reviewers! I do appreciate reading your feedback, so, so much.

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_**4. Plummeting, or, The Brittle Skin**_

Hermione cried until her nose was streaming and her eyes reddened and sore; until her head and sinuses ached, and she had run out of tears to sob out. Slumped on the floor literally at Draco Malfoy's feet, her world entirely ripped apart, in shreds around her. Everything she had thought, everything she had expected; the rough map of her life, the little control she had over her future – it had all been taken away from her. Hermione was at Malfoy's mercy. _For now_, she clarified fiercely to herself, wiping away snot and tears with the back of her hand, her dry sobs beginning to slow and ease a little. _For now._ Hermione would find a way to escape, eventually. It was only Malfoy, she told herself – she could out-think him. She just had to try to stay strong. But right now, Hermione wasn't feeling very strong.

Her eyes flickered to the side, to his dangling feet in their heavy boots. She had been huddled on the floor crying for at least an hour, and Malfoy had just sat there silently the whole time. It was strange. She would have expected mocking, or abuse, not this nearly companionable silence that made her just want to kick and punch him until he showed his true colours again. She remembered his words about it being more bearable for both of them if she cooperated – that he wasn't a monster; he didn't want to hurt her. And then she remembered his grip on her throat as he choked her. She brought her hand up to her throat and touched it gingerly – it was sore and Hermione knew it would bruise. She wrapped her arms back around her drawn up legs, wanting to curl into a ball so small she disappeared.

She didn't know what to make of Malfoy. He wanted out, he had said. He just wanted out of the war, without him or his parents being killed or hurt. Hermione believed him on that. But she still hated him for this, for what he was doing to her.

She drew a deep, shaky breath, her sobs tapering off completely at last, leaning her forehead on her towel-covered knees and breathing slow and deep. Malfoy had been on the other side his whole life. He had saved Harry's life. His booted feet hit the kitchenette floor and Hermione didn't look up, lost in thought. He had tortured them at the other Death Eaters' orders, even while he'd been giving Harry the Polyjuice. Malfoy had kidnapped Hermione, but he'd saved her from bleeding to death. He had magically leashed her to him like a _dog_, and nearly choked her into unconsciousness. But he said he didn't _want _to hurt her, that he _wasn't_ a monster. He was a study in contradictions.

Hermione sat there lost in her hatred, grief, and confusion, trying to take in and process her new reality. This was life, until she could escape. Malfoy's much-hated pet. A hostage, with no rights, no control, nothing except what Malfoy allowed her – and despite what he'd _said_ about not wanting to hurt her, what he had _done_ had contradicted his fine words. Because he'd hurt her. He was hurting her now; maybe not physically, but… She couldn't trust a word Malfoy said, she told herself. She couldn't let herself believe that he felt bad about any of this. She had to hold onto her anger, and _use_ it, channel it into finding a way to get away. Get back to Harry and Ron. It was only then that Hermione realised they would have to move on to another area soon so as not to risk discovery, and even if she escaped, she might not be able to find them. Her eyes stung as they tried to cry tears they didn't have the moisture for.

The sound of a throat clearing above her drew her out of her misery, and Hermione looked up to see Malfoy in front of her, holding a cup down to her. She automatically, numbly, reached out and took it, and it was hot, steam rising off it in wispy white curls. Tea. Malfoy had made her a cup of tea. Hermione contemplated flinging the scalding hot liquid in his Death Eater face, but she didn't think that would work out well for her, however momentarily satisfying it might be. And she did want a cup of tea, after all that crying. So she looked up at his carefully expressionless features and said with controlled vehemence, "A cup of tea doesn't change what you are, or what you've done. I still think you're an evil, disgusting coward, and I despise you." And then she turned her eyes to her tea and calmly sipped at the tea, burning her tongue and trying to hide that fact, so he didn't laugh at her.

Malfoy made a guttural, angry sound and Hermione lifted her eyes from her tea as she blew on it, just enough to see his legs striding away from her. "Ungrateful fucking _mudblood,_" she heard him spit, and the compulsion to be near him suddenly grew exponentially. She gritted her teeth and clutching her mug tighter, refusing to go chasing after him or call him back. Merlin, she really did despise him. And then suddenly the pain and compulsion ratcheted up beyond bearable. Hermione gasped and cried out, and her mug of tea jerked in her spasming hand, spilling scalding hot liquid all down her front, before the mug fell from her nerveless fingers to the floor and broke to pieces.

A wretched moan tore from Hermione's throat, and then she was scrabbling across the floor to Malfoy, crying from the pain and the indignity of it. Then his booted feet were there in front of her face, and he was kneeling down in front of her, his hands helping her up as a stream of swear words spilt from his lips. The pain of the magical binding was blissfully gone, but the milder pain from the burn her scalding tea had inflicted remained. And it wasn't as bad, but Merlin, it still _hurt_.

"Shit – I didn't – I forgot – fuck – Granger –"

She clung to him, a sick, sick irony, her hands latched onto his arms desperately, her mind stuttering with shock and pain, her muscles trembling uncontrollably. "I – I _hate_ you," she ground out again, and gasped a shaking breath. She wouldn't' be able to stand it if he moved too far from her again and the pain came back, so she dug her fingers into his bottle green hoodie and refused to let go. She hated him so much – so much – for forcing her to do this, to cling to him and want to beg him to stay near to her, when all she really wanted was to escape. Malfoy shook her off roughly and she whimpered pitifully.

"Don't fucking touch me. Don't you _dare _touch me, mudblood," he snarled in a wobbly kind of voice. But even as he was recoiling and insulting her, Malfoy was drawing his wand, and soothing and healing Hermione's bright pink burns. She blinked up at him through a haze of tears as he stood, looming over her in his casual Muggle clothes, with his unnaturally dark hair. He was running his hands through it, staring down at Hermione with a trapped, frantic air about him. It bled through his attempt at cold composure, and she saw that he wasn't really as in charge as he had appeared, up until now. He was _scared_. Malfoy was scared and panicking, and Hermione thought that was most likely a good thing – she could use that to her advantage.

Hermione gathered the towel – which had half come off her in her pathetic crawl to Malfoy – back up around her, covering herself with an attention to modesty that was probably pointless by now. She stayed sitting on the floor at Malfoy's feet, too wobbly to get up, but her chin jutted up and she summoned what little dignity she had left to her, wrapping it around her like a cloak.

"Shit. Fuck." Malfoy stared down at her, still dragging a hand roughly through his hair, his features openly conflicted and distressed now. Merlin, he had some nerve, Hermione though indignantly. What did _he_ have to be upset about, compared to her? "Fuck. All right, Granger. Time to sleep." She stared at him big-eyed, not sure if that meant he was going to magically knock her out, or… "It's late. There's nothing more I can do tonight. We may as well get some fucking sleep," Malfoy clarified shortly. "Now, get up, or it'll start hurting again," he directed her coldly, and Hermione scowled but struggled to her feet and limpingly shadowed him as he dragged the two-seater settee toward the bed.

Halfway to the bed, Hermione felt a sudden familiar sticky patch of wetness on her knickers. Oh no. Oh _Merlin_, she'd forgotten. Tears of humiliation sprang to Hermione's eyes, and she ground her teeth together. "Malfoy?" He ignored her, huffing as he shoved at the over-stuffed settee. Standing very still, feeling the stickiness in her knickers, Hermione hissed and went hot with anger and embarrassment. This was really just the last straw. "_Malfoy._" He paused in shifting the settee, glancing over, his eyes looking even paler when paired with that light brown shock of hair. "What?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I've got my period." There. She'd said it. Just blurted it out, like ripping off a sticking plaster. His pale eyes narrowed. "_What?_"

"Oh _Merlin_." Her cheeks were positively flaming and the humiliation was awful, and she turned snippy and clinical in her fury. "I've got my _period_, Malfoy. You know – that thing women usually get every month? Where the lining of their uterus –"

"Oh _fuck._" His face was disgusted as he interrupted her. "Just stop. I don't need to hear –"

Hermione was on a roll though. "– My dirty, dirty blood, just –"

"Salazar save me from insufferable bitches, you –"

"– Going to have to go buy me tampons, Malfoy!" Hermione nearly yelled, cutting over his ranting. "Muggle feminine hygiene products! You'll need to go buy them!"

He snapped his mouth shut and stared at her in horrified disbelief, and suddenly Hermione's humiliation was utterly gone and she felt like laughing at the look on the evil git's face.

"_No_," he snarled, turning away from her and manoeuvring the settee up by the bed.

"You have to," she said firmly, feeling a strange, subtle shift of power between them.

"Fuck off, Granger. There's no way in hell I'm going into a Muggle shop to get you some Muggle shit for your fucking monthly. Just…do it the bloody magical way."

"Well I _could_ transfigure a flannel or something into a cloth pad like most witches do," she said, exaggeratedly thoughtful and caustic, "Only I don't have my wand."

"I'll fucking do it then." He glared down at her, only a foot between them, his eyes narrowed and his mouth all twisted up.

"Oh, and will you _scourgify_ it for me too?" Hermione asked him sweetly, and Malfoy's features suddenly looked nauseous. "Look, Malfoy, unless you want to get _intimately_ acquainted with my dirty filthy blood, you're going to have to go and buy me tampons." She smirked at him – what Ron would call a big, shit-eating grin. Oh _Ron…_ Hermione's chest ached with grief at the reminder of her separation from her two boys, but she shoved her tears deep down, folding her arms over her chest and raising an eyebrow at Malfoy. He emanated disgusted hatred, his pale skin flushed red along his cheekbones with embarrassment and anger, and his eyes narrowed.

"Fine, Granger," he grated out at last. "Bathroom. Now." He headed in that direction and Hermione followed closely behind. She forced herself not to react but just do what she was told when he ordered her onto the floor by the toilet and conjured up some manacles, chaining her to the base of the loo. She sat hunched on the floor glaring murder up at him, her hands and feet chained to the toilet, her knickers distinctly damp and gross now. "Be good," he ordered her with a nasty smirk, and Hermione shivered suddenly.

"Take – take the binding spell off. _Please. _You can't just…" Hermione didn't want to beg him, but she pictured herself writhing in agony and need, clawing at the floor in her attempts to get to Draco – miles away at the nearest all-night shop or petrol station. She had to ask him. She _had_ to beg. He gave her a contemptuous sneer. "How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not a fucking monster, Granger."

"Could've fooled me," she muttered just loud enough for him to hear, and then gave him a saccharine smile. "Libra tampons, thanks. Super-slim, extra-absorbent." She spoke as though he were a child, and she could see him bristling at her tone. After all this goading he'd probably come back with Muggle pads just to annoy her – but more fool him if he did; Hermione might prefer tampons, but she could live with pads. He didn't acknowledge her, just removed the binding spell with a low mutter and complex wand wave, and she felt a tingle hum through her bones and blood, making her hairs stand on end. Malfoy swallowed hard and eyed her coldly.

"I'll be back very, very soon," he warned Hermione, and she made a face at him, like a child. It was really very satisfying.

"Bet you never thought you'd be running errands for the mudblood, did you Malfoy?" Hermione taunted him one last time, and he made a snarling, growling sound and disapparated with a crack, leaving her alone in the bathroom. She had just enough slack in the heavy chains to get up and go to the toilet and sort herself out a little, using some folded up toilet paper as a makeshift pad, and splashing her face with cold water in the little wash basin, and having a drink of it. She had a look at her left thigh – the livid, knotted scar running down the outside of it – and cringed at the thought of how terrible it must have looked before it had been healed. And _he'd_ healed her. Of course, he'd had to, because he needed her, but still…he'd saved her life. Hermione covered the scar back up with the towel, shut the toilet lid and perched on the edge of it, the heavy chains around her ankles and wrists clanking and uncomfortable.

Her mind worked frantically the whole time Malfoy was gone, but try as she might, Hermione couldn't think of a way to escape, not yet. Maybe if he slipped up and didn't restrain her or knock her out every time he slept, she might be able to steal his wand and threaten him into letting her go and removing the binding spell…? It wasn't a very good plan, because he'd need his wand to remove the spell, and if he had his wand, he'd be in control and wouldn't let her go. Killing him would work, of course, but…Hermione cringed from the thought. She couldn't do that. A small voice whispered in her head, that maybe she could…wait until he slept, and then stab him through the heart with a kitchen knife, slit his throat, suffocate him, strangle him…

She gasped and shook herself, wrapping her arms around her middle and trying to focus her exhausted, shock-clouded mind. Where had those thoughts come from? And then her mind clicked. The horcrux. Of course. She'd nearly forgotten about that, too, in the mad, pain-filled, awful chaos of the night. The shrinking charm must have worn off by now, and there was a locket trapped in her stomach, too big to come out either way without the use of magic. Hermione had a horcrux inside her. The thought terrified her almost more than anything else that had happened tonight, because she, Harry, and Ron had seen firsthand the effects that the locket had on someone who wore it too long, and now Hermione had it trapped inside her. It twisted people, made them angrier, prone to seeing the worst motives in everyone and everything, tried to tempt the wearer into doing terrible, evil things.

Oh no. Oh no. Everything had gone so, so wrong, and right now she was too tired and shocked to think of a way out. Hermione huddled up on the toilet, a leaden misery weighting her down and the manacles around her wrists and ankles clanking with every tiny move she made. There was nothing for her to do, but sit here helplessly and wait for Malfoy to come back. So she waited. She estimated half an hour passed before a loud crack split the air, and she looked up with puffy, sore eyes, just in time to see Malfoy throw a small plastic bag at her. She caught it reflexively, and pulled out a box of Libra tampons; exactly what she'd specified. Neither of them said a word.

Malfoy had another larger bag in his hand, which he set down by the bathroom door, and then began muttering under his breath and waving his wand at her – the binding spell, she assumed, and when she felt the tingle run through her, knew she was right. She immediately wanted to get closer to him, even though they were only a metre or so apart, and she tried to shove the impulse down. He waved his wand again and the manacles disappeared, leaving faint pink marks on her wrists and ankles from the pressure of their weight. She rubbed at her wrists and ankles, resentful of the marks the manacles had left, her anger toward him seething right beneath the surface, just waiting for a crack to bubble up through. Malfoy cleared his throat awkwardly as she began to tear the plastic wrapping off the tampon box, and she paused and glanced up.

"There are clothes in the bag," he said stiffly, and Hermione's eyes widened. He'd gotten her clothes. That was oddly…thoughtful, for Malfoy. It was probably just because she wasn't publicly presentable in her current ruined outfit though – Hermione found it hard, if not downright impossible, to believe that Malfoy would do anything for her with the motive of kindness. "They should fit you all right," he continued sullenly with a scowl, "Just a tee-shirt and something the Muggle shopkeeper called a tracksuit." Hermione nodded, refusing to thank him, clutching the box of tampons in one hand and wanting more than anything to throw them at his head, and then the soap again, and the little bottle of shampoo, and the loo paper roll – if it was possible to beat someone to death with toilet paper, she would bloody well try it. Instead, because it wasn't, she just glowered at him hatefully.

"You're welcome," he sniped and her scowl deepened until she was practically pulling a face at him, and turned up her nose at him. "I'd like some privacy now, Malfoy. If you could wait outside the door? I'd say you could go and relax, but with this binding spell you put on me…"

"Fine," he growled, adding under his breath, "Ungrateful bloody bint," and stalked out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

**# # # # # #**

Draco slumped against the doorframe, taking deep breaths. He was so fucking exhausted he could barely see straight let alone think straight, and he just wanted to fall into bed and sleep, but he couldn't thanks to Granger's presence. Buying those Muggle _'tampons'_ had been a ruddy ordeal – the rather dull-looking pimply teenager behind the counter had smirked and said something about "On an errand for yer missus, eh? That time of month is it? 'S a rough time for us lads, when they're on the effing rag." Draco had given the Muggle a disgusted, contemptuous look that withered even that slow-witted Muggle, and barely refrained from pulling his wand on the idiot. "How much?" he'd asked the Muggle and the lout had muttered the amount, Draco dropping the Muggle money on the counter distastefully.

He rubbed a hand over his face, hoping Granger didn't dawdle, but hurried the fuck up, because he sure as hell wasn't standing out here half the night while she primped herself. Not that Granger had ever been one to waste her time on primping – he had to give the swot credit for that, at least. Five minutes ticked slowly past, by his count, and he thumped a fist impatiently back against the door. "Hurry the hell up. Or I'm coming in to drag you out by your bushy fucking hair." To his surprise the door jerked open, and Granger glared out at him, stark naked but for a large fluffy towel wrapped around her. Her face was pale and beaded with sweat, and she looked pained and overwrought as she glared up at him.

"It – it's too far. I can't..." she began, stumbling over her words and flushing as red as a tomato. "Could you come in while I shower?" She grated the words out like it pained her to ask him, and he smirked faintly at her embarrassment. "Say please," he mocked, rather enjoying Granger's mortification, and she growled under her breath, her face contorting with the force of her anger. "Fuck you, Malfoy!" she snarled and he raised an eyebrow at her language. Goody-good Granger had a foul mouth on her when she wanted to; that was unexpected, really. "All right, then. No skin off my nose. Enjoy your shower," Draco said and settled back against the door jamb, mouth still curved into a smile that he knew would infuriate her. And then Granger sobbed; a hitching, stifled little sound, and Draco glanced over at her. Her eyes swam with tears and her jaw was clenched tight as she bowed her head and made to close the door, hand trembling. He swore inwardly.

Draco straightened up and grabbed the door before she could close it, calling himself a sentimental, weak fool the whole bloody time. But Granger looked like pure misery, and he'd had his fun being an arsehole already, and…well, there was a reason he didn't make a good Death Eater – he had always been too bloody soft. "Get out of the fucking way then," he growled, scowling at her and practically elbowing her aside as he stalked into the bathroom, and took up a position facing the wall. He didn't hear her move, so he glanced over his shoulder and saw her standing there staring at him with tears on her cheeks and mingled hate and confusion on her face. "Hurry up then, before I change my fucking mind," he told her, and turned to face the wall again.

"If you look, I'll –"

"If I wanted to look I could, and there's not a damn thing you could do about it, Granger," Draco snapped cruelly, trying to make up for his weakness in backing down and coming in here without forcing a 'please' out of her as he'd demanded. Something hard shoved him in the small of the back and he nearly staggered into the wall, pushing off from it and spinning to glare at Granger, who faced him with fury in her eyes, unafraid. She was a Gryffindor, all right. Stupid bloody bint. He took a step toward her, fists clenched. Between his panicked terror at the situation, his uter exhaustion, and his irritation at Granger, his patience was long since shattered.

"Do you think it's wise, to hit the person whose power you are in? To piss off the person who can hurt you?" he growled, and she curled her lip at him. "I'm not afraid of you, Malfoy. You're a bully and a coward, and you don't scare me. And you keep insisting you're not a monster, so really there's a limit to what you can do to me, unless you were lying about that."

The bitch had him there. For all that Draco enjoyed taunting Granger for being such an annoying, irritating, self-righteous know-it-all at school – and now, still – he didn't like truly hurting people; not anymore, at any rate. Not even her. Possibly especially not her, because… He clenched and unclenched his fists reflexively but took a step back, relenting, because he was suddenly sick and tired of their back and forth – he just wanted to go to sleep, and figure out what exactly he was going to do in the morning. "Hit me again, Granger, and I'll slap you with an _incarcerous _before you can blink, and keep you like that for the rest of your stay with me. Years, if fucking necessary. Understand?"

She gave him an odd look, as though she'd expected him to say or do something else, and then nodded resentfully.

"Good," he said, turning back around. "Hurry up then, before I decide I can't be bothered hovering here while you indulge in a shower."

"Bastard," she mumbled under her breath, but Draco heard the towel fall to the floor. He tried not to picture Granger naked, which wasn't exactly easy – not because he was attracted to her, but because it was like trying not to think of a pink troll when you knew one was hovering just behind you, teeth bared. Hell, if Millicent Bulstrode had been naked behind Draco, he would have been picturing _her_ naked too. Ugh, and now he _was _picturing Milly naked and felt rather fucking ill, because it was _not_ a pretty picture. The shower turned on, and a moment later the steady fall of the water was replaced with uneven flows and splashes as Granger no doubt got under the water. Draco tried to block out the sounds of the mudblood showering – slick, sliding sounds of soapy hands on smooth flesh – and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to make sense of his current situation and decide how to handle it best.

He needed to get Granger to contact the Order, and tell them she was being held hostage, and he needed to contact the Dark Lord or one of his people and tell them he had the horcrux and was willing to destroy it if the Dark Lord hurt his parents, or tried to hunt him down. The Order shouldn't be any problem, bunch of sentimental idiots that they were, but Draco would have to deal with the Dark Lord far more delicately. He would have to make it clear to Voldemort that from a certain perspective the horcrux was actually safer from the Order's clutches where it was, in Draco's possession. He was, in fact, doing the Dark Lord a favour, if you looked at the situation carefully – still serving the damned snake in a roundabout way; he was keeping the horcrux safe. And all Draco asked in return was that he not have to fight in the war but keep protecting the horcrux instead – and that his parents would go unpunished for his failures.

If Draco was honest with himself, the chances of the Dark Lord reacting exactly as Draco wanted him too were relatively low, but they still gave his parents and himself a better chance of survival than if he returned to the Dark Lord with Granger and the horcrux, and no Potter or Weasley. He groaned inwardly, his head pounding and his mind and body utterly exhausted. Draco just wanted to not be involved in any of this anymore. He wanted to run away to somewhere like New Zealand or South America with his parents, and leave the war far behind. He didn't want to hold Granger prisoner and be horrible and cruel to her, he didn't want to try to negotiate with a madman, and he didn't want to be on the run with a mudblood witch who hated him even more than he despised her. But as Draco saw it, he didn't have much of a choice now, did he?

The shower shut off and he cleared his mind, staring at the tiles on the bathroom wall and listening to the wet slap of feet on the floor, the sound of the towel as Granger dried herself, fabric whispering as she dressed. Draco would have to figure out a way to make it work, with her. All right, he despised the bitch - mostly for her insufferable personality; her blood status only compounded his dislike of her – but if they were to be on the run together for some time, it would be far easier if they could be, well…coldly civil. Draco thought he could keep a lid on the worst of his taunts and mockery if Granger didn't irritate him as much as she usually did, and kept her mouth shut and did as she was told, as he'd told her to do earlier. Draco very much doubted she would agree to behave, though. Kidnapping and imprisonment did not improve Granger's attitude toward him, unsurprisingly.

"I'm done," she said rather sullenly, and Draco turned around with a blank expression settled over his face – refusing to behave nicely, but deciding upon consideration that it would be wiser not to be a complete arsehole, no matter how satisfying it was right now to provoke Granger into a rage. If he could establish some kind of truce between them there would probably be less chance of the witch trying to figure out a way to kill Draco in his sleep. She wore the plain grey long-sleeved tee-shirt and the black sweatpants he'd bought, and both seemed slightly too big, hanging on her unflatteringly. Her shockingly short hair was wet and spiked up as though from a quick scrub from the towel, and her face was ashen from the blood loss she'd sustained earlier, dark shadows beneath her eyes. She looked like utter shite. Draco almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"You can sleep on the couch by the bed," he said, heading out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, trusting that she would be following close behind him. "And I'm going to have to restrain you once I go to sleep."

"What? But – you – you can't do that!" She was angry, and Draco sighed and flicked the jug on, leaning back against the kitchen bench. "Salazar's sake, Granger, what did you think I'd do? I can't leave you free. You could bloody well murder me in my sleep."

"I wouldn't do that." She pursed up her lips and folded her arms over her chest, glaring at him.

"Well, maybe not," he allowed, pulling out two mugs and dropping a tea bag in each, trying very hard not to let her irk him. It would be so much easier for him if they could be somewhat civil – if Granger understood and accepted the situation, like he'd already said to her earlier. And as fun as working her up was, it didn't help him. Draco knew he had to be smart about this, not just reflexively snark at her because it was the dynamic they'd always had, and because his self-control and temper was frayed. He dumped some sugar in with the tea bags and sighed, trying very hard to keep his tone neutral. "But you still might take my wand, break the binding spell and escape. And I can't have you doing that. It's my life at stake, Granger. Mine _and _my parents. This is my only bloody chance to keep both me and them alive, so if I have to keep you bound up in an _incarcerous_ twenty-four hours a day, I will."

She frowned, but didn't say anything, just nodded shortly, arms crossed over her chest and eyes on her bare toes. "What about if I need to go to the bathroom?" she asked him in an embarrassed mumble, and Draco cleared his throat, feeling highly uncomfortable with all this business of showers and going to the toilet and mudblood monthlies. It was fucking disgusting and highly awkward, in so, so many ways. "Then wake me up. I'm a light sleeper; it doesn't take much to wake me." The rumbling Muggle jug began to bubble and Draco tipped the boiling water into the mugs, feeling Granger's eyes on him as he made up the tea. He shoved one of the mugs at her. "Here."

She took it as though she were afraid it was going to explode. "You made me tea, again. What the hell do you want, Malfoy?" she asked suspiciously, shooting him a narrowed glance. "What are you trying to do?" He smirked at her. "Your stay with me could be somewhat…extended…as has already been mentioned. I still think some level of civility would be preferable to constant warfare between us."

"Preferable to _you_, you mean," she snapped, holding the tea gingerly and sneering at him. He cocked an eyebrow. "I could do whatever I want to you, Granger." He set down his tea and took a step toward her, snapping his wrist, his wand sliding down into his hand from its arm sheath. "I could torture you. I could rape you. I could humiliate and hurt you in any number of ways. You are _entirely at my fucking mercy, you sanctimonious bitch_." She stumbled a step back against the kitchen bench and tea splashed over the rim of her mug, over her hand and onto the floor. Draco gestured his wand at the splash, looming over her. "I could make you get down on your hands and knees right now and lick that up. I could do _anything I wanted to you_."

Tears filled her eyes but she kept her chin up and her eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his – Granger was afraid, but she refused to let him cowe her, and for a moment Draco wished he was as brave as her, the stubborn, infuriating mudblood who nonetheless had more courage in her little finger than Draco had in his whole body. "And if you do," she said in a thick, tear-clogged voice, "All you'll be doing is proving how worthy of my contempt you are."

He shook his head at that. Shook his head and stepped back, angry and frustrated. "I told you I wouldn't. I _told_ you, Granger. All I'm trying to do is stay alive! Fine, I dislike you, yes. But I don't want to hurt you. I just want..." He trailed off, furious that she had provoked an unmeasured response from him like that. She was watching him with big muddy brown eyes, and he cleared his throat and looked away. "I will not do anything to you magically nor force you to do anything physically, that is not essential to my survival. I _could_, but I won't."

"Oh, and am I expected to be _grateful_ to you for that? Do you expect me to applaud you for not being a _completely_ hideous human being, but only mildly awful?" Granger hissed at him, and Draco felt her words like a slap in the face. He snarled and restrained the building urge to just explode at her in a fit of panicked, frustrated anger. Control; control was the word of the day. He would hardly be any happier than Granger was if their situations were reversed. And yet…Draco stepped close to her again, forcing her to tilt her head right back to meet his eyes.

"No, Granger," he said with quiet vehemence, trying to channel his scathing, intimidating godfather. "You're expected to remember that if I was anyone else – any other Death Eater – you would have already been tortured magically, beaten physically, and raped until you begged for death. So yes, be _grateful_. Be grateful I'm not Rowle, Dolohov, Greyback, or Crabbe Senior, or any of the other sadists who would have torn you to shreds, physically and mentally. I may not be a good person, Granger, but I'm a hell of a lot better than some of the people who could have captured you are."

She swallowed thickly, her expression stricken and frightened, but still radiating suppressed anger. He continued, "And it would make both of our lives much, much less unpleasant if we…call a truce, of sorts."

"A truce! Pah!" Granger mocked him, her mug wrapped in white-knuckled fingers, the steam rising off it and curling up between them. "I'm your prisoner. Truces are called between equals, and as you have been so kindly reminding me, right now I don't have equal power to you, so a truce is impossible."

"Oh for fuck's sake, Granger." Draco twisted away, scrubbing at his forehead, feeling his blood pound behind his eyes, his head aching. "Look," he said with a quiet desperation that he couldn't entirely hide from his tone, turning his gaze to hers again. "I will treat you as…civilly as possible, given the situation, if you will agree to do the same for me."

Granger eyed him silently for a long moment, and then nodded, and lifted the mug to her lips, sipping at her tea. Draco assumed that was her way of accepting his offer of truce, so he nodded back and retrieved his own tea mug. They stood in stiff silence for a time, drinking their tea and shooting each other suspicious, covert glances, eyes occasionally meeting awkwardly. She still looked furious – and white as a sheet – and he still didn't like the bitch, but at least she wasn't throwing soap at his head and forcing him to be a horrible bastard to her. Draco was too fucking tired to be a horrible bastard right now. He dug an apple out of his rucksack and tossed it to her once they'd both finished their tea, and then jerked his head toward the couch when she'd devoured it as though she was half-starved.

Granger went and sat on the couch without a word, although her chin quivered and her red rimmed eyes filled up with more damn tears as Draco lashed her to the couch by one wrist and one ankle with manacles, having transfigured the back of the couch into a set of bars to attach the manacles to. Draco tested how secure she was, made sure the manacles were short enough that she wouldn't be able to reach him in the night although she could sit up or lie down freely, and then threw her one of the blankets off the bed. He turned off all the lights except for the bedside lamp, taking an irrational pleasure in flicking off the Muggle _alektrikel _switches. Granger was lying on her side on the couch, one of the cushions under her head and the blanket covering her, watching him as he moved around the room. Draco ignored her burning gaze as he stripped off his Muggle boots and clothes, tossing them carelessly to the floor. He noticed and smirked to himself though when he noticed Granger quickly closed her eyes as he unselfconsciously shoved down his jeans, leaving him standing in naught but his cotton undershorts.

Her cheeks were very pink, her breathing suddenly shallow, eyes scrunched tightly shut. Prude, he thought with amusement as he climbed under the blankets and let out a soft sigh of relief. He switched off the bedside lamp without a word to Granger, his two wands under his pillow, out of her reach and well within his. Draco expected it would take him a long time to go to sleep, his mind was whirring with so many thoughts, weighed down with so much nerve-straining stress and fear – but he fell into sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. His nightmares were painfully vivid.

**# # # # # #**

**Author's Note: **So? What did you think? Please leave me a review and let me know, and I will love you forever :3 As evidenced by their interactions so far, development of romantic feelings between Draco and Hermione is going to be relatively slow – I'm going for a real bastard Draco and feisty Hermione in this fic. I like it when they fight, haha. But it won't _all_ be hatred and antagonism between them; soon enough things are going to start happening that force them to look at each other in different lights, work together, and protect each other – whether they like it, or not :p

Now to go and try to work on the next chapter of The Just World Fallacy, before you slaughter me for taking so long with my updates (again, so many apologies for keeping you all waiting, lovely readers.)


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